Chrono Break
by Zipp Dementia
Summary: A serious treatment of Chrono Trigger. This is the story of what happened in between Chrono Trigger and Chrono Cross. These are the characters as they would be in reality; it is the story not of their happy ever-after, but of their downfall.
1. Author's Note

It's been a while since I've tried my hand at any fan fiction, but one night in October I had a dream which roughly outlined the plot of a true sequel to Chrono Trigger. Obviously, writing a game and writing a story are two different things. Writing a game is more akin to writing a movie, though even that isn't a perfect translation. Games are more based on the interaction and immersion in a world, rather than complexity of plot or characters. It's this immersion which causes us to fall in love with games, and which makes them so memorable.

Chrono Trigger is unusual in that it had a very strong and detailed plot, with more ins and outs than most games, and with strong characters (though with admitedly simple back stories... "remedied" by Chrono Cross). It's one of the reasons the game is still listed as one of the best RPGs of all time, and one of the reasons that, despite the numerous times I've played it, I can't seem to bring myself to get any ending other than the main one, to see the story through to full completion and resolution.

In any case, this is not a perfect translation of what was given to me in my dream. Rather, it was that plot then put through the translation of a story format. I don't want to give the story away, but I will say that ultimately it will deal with the rise of Poore to a military power and one possible resolution for the disappearance of Guardia and two of our favourite characters. Keep an eye out for Chross references, as well.

I'm going to keep working on this until I either get bored or finish it. Having a place to put it up for comments/criticism may go a long ways towards the latter, though.

(Note: this fiction was hosted first at Chrono Compendium and later at Honest Gamers before moving to Fan Fiction. At the time of the move, 16 of the parts had been completed. It may take some time to relocate all the parts. Thank you for your patience.)

Without further ado, I give you my version of Chrono Break.


	2. Part i

_Crono..._

No, he wasn't ready. He was still fighting.

_Crono..._

In front of him was a gigantic being. It was hard to make out its exact shape, though it roughly resembled an insect. Most of it was encased in a hard shell with jutting spikes and protrusions. Some of these protrusions seemed to function as locomotive devices, gripping into the cracked ground around the shell. Others seemed almost decorative, idly placed to inspire fear and awe. Only one part of the actual body was visible, and this was a crude head formed of three beaks, more a mouth than anything else. The mouth opened and closed slowly, a soft blue light emanating from within.

The light seemed to regard him, as if it were an eye.

The mouth itself was bigger than his body, capable of enclosing him. The shell was even larger, impossibly huge, as large as a city block and tearing into the sky.

And he was facing it alone.

_Crono..._

As if sensing his fear, the mouth suddenly opened wide and vibrated in a roar so loud and deep that he couldn't decipher its full range. He felt it more than he heard it. It sent his body into waves of numbness. His only weapon, a wooden practice katana, slipped from his fingers. No longer able to stand he fell to his knees and the blue light judged him.

_Crono..._

The protrusions at the bottom of the shell gripped the earth in a sudden tensing motion, cracking through its hardened surface. The mouth quivered again, but this time no roar came. In fact, there was no sound at all, as if the very world was holding its breath.

Light gathered on the shell. Pooling in the crevices and shimmering out of the spikes like a white mane. It almost looked beautiful. Then it gathered and leapt forward into the air, spreading out to envelop the sky.

Suddenly he realized that he was on the outskirts of a city. What he had at first taken for dead ground he now realized was manmade. A path of some sort... though of a material and structure that he'd never encountered in his life. This road led into a large conglomeration of towers, a cityscape of massive proportions. Flying machines darted like flies amidst the buildings. He imagined that each was controlled by a living human being. He could close his eyes and see their faces... so innocent. So naive.

The light fell.

Fire burned his exposed face and hands. The world turned red. The buildings teetered, then sank into themselves, melting back into their base materials. He heard, or imagined he heard, one heavy sigh, as if from the planet itself. Electrical energy, disturbed by the force of the destruction, played over the sky and struck the metal hubs where once life had lived out its ignorant journey on the way to death.

He heard a rasping draw for breath and a gasping release of air. It took him a moment to realize it was the sound of his own breathing. His lungs had been destroyed by the heat. The pain was too great for his mind to register. He felt nothing. He only knew that he was dying.

_Crono..._

The mouth opened again. Again came the roar that measured beyond sound. The blue light washed over his body and suddenly sensation returned to his limbs. His nerves awoke in a spasm of pain and a scream forced itself out of his body, a sound he never would've thought himself capable of making.

Still the light washed over him, until there was nothing except pain. The pain was infinite, all he ever was, and all he ever would be. Pain, and a scream that joined the sound of the tortured wind blowing over the destroyed land.

_Wake up, Crono!_

Darkness creapt in at the corners of the light. The pain dulled, then vanished. Even the memory of it became hard to retain. He could only sense that he'd felt something indescribable. Perhaps because it was so inconceivable, he continued to try and locate it. But he could not slip back into the vision.

"_C'mon... get up!"_

He grunted, and the baseness of the sound, the normality of it, brought him fully back to himself. The soft bed. The pillows stuffed with goose down. He opened his eyes to see a face hovering next to his. It was familiar and comforting, erasing the last images of the dream from his mind.

Nadia grinned at him. "It's getting harder and harder to get you up."

Crono yawned. "Then stop trying." He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes, though he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

"Oh no you don't." Nadia began shaking him. The act was so playful, so characteristic of her natural good cheer, that he couldn't help but smile. He pretended to struggle for a few seconds, then suddenly flipped on top of her and kissed her on the lips. When he pulled away she smiled, then made a face.

"Ugh... morning breath."

He rolled back to his side of the bed and watched Nadia disentangle herself from the mess of blankets. Sunlight streamed through the one large window in their bedroom, casting her skin in an alabaster shade, making her seem to glow. Though at 22 she was already past the prime of womanhood, she was still as beautiful as she'd been when she was 17, when they'd gotten married. The entire kingdom of Guardia was aware of her beauty, and most people seemed to take it as a matter of pride that their Queen rivaled other women in both her charisma and strength of character. Nadia herself called her looks "cliché." The Guardia line was known for the beauty of its women, and Nadia hated to be a part of any tradition.

Now Crono watched Queen Nadia stand free of the bed and stretch. Her naked back was to him, and his eyes casually traced the line of her spine until his view was obscured by a golden cascade of hair when she tossed her head.

Watching her, something seemed to nag at the corners of his mind, some hidden anxiety that sought to find his attention. Nadia, unaware, went to a large wooden closet in a corner of the room and opened it to reveal her various options of dress. She paused, as she always did, though only for a split second. Long enough, Crono knew, to let her eyes fall on the stack of clothes stuffed into the corner of the closet, laying underneath a crossbow, unused for the last five years. The moment passed quickly, as it always did.

As she dressed, Nadia went on about the various things they had to take care of throughout the day. Her father had died only a few months ago, leaving Crono the new King of Guardia by right of his marriage into the royal family. If he had at one point in his life considered nobility to lead a mostly easy existence interspersed with the excitement of grand battles, being King for six months had shown him otherwise. Gone were the days where men met in armed combat on the field of battle. They had been replaced by a political maze, and Crono spent nearly every waking hour traversing its corridors.

Once he had thought that of the two of them Nadia was the more carefree and careless. But in matters of state he found himself more often than not relying on her guidance to steer his decisions. Never much of a talker, he quickly discovered that he simply had no head for politics and the contest of wits that it required.

So he only half listened as Nadia outlined who they'd be meeting in court that day and what the various complaints, requests, and legal ramifications would be. He was idly distracted, anyway, by a feeling of anxiety that wouldn't go away. In fact, the more Nadia talked, the stronger the anxiety got. It wasn't the usual feeling of dread at having to spend his day holding political court. It was the feeling that he was forgetting something... overlooking something of dreadful importance.

Eventually Nadia's stream of dialogue died out, and she stood watching him, fully dressed in a full length gown (something she would've scoffed at only a few years ago). Somehow the fact that she was wearing it so easily now bothered him. He realized Nadia was watching him, presumably waiting for him to comment on her appearance, and he felt even more distressed. He spoke, and was surprised at the curtness in his voice.

"Go to breakfast. I'll join you in a moment."

Nadia stared at him , and although she didn't say anything about it, he felt that he'd hurt her. He would feel guilty all throughout breakfast, he knew. This frustrated him all the more. It was frustrating to think that a day could go from good to bad in the space of one person getting dressed, and for no good reason other than a sudden take of anxiety. Yet, as Nadia exited the room, the feeling went away, and he was left only with a vague confusion and a discomforting sensation of contentment to be alone.


	3. Part ii

Breakfast was more of a feast than a meal. It was Crono's habit to have food on the table all day long, both to provide his guests with nourishment as well as to give him something to do while listening to them. He tried to ignore the fact that this habit had had something of an unfortunate influence upon the size of his paunch. Still, Crono was a hard muscled man at 21, well built, with an impressive mane of fiery red hair that made him an imposing leader. He couldn't stifle the thought the effect would be greater with a blade in his hand than with a fork.

His day passed, as usual, in a blur of faces and complaints. The only good thing about it was that it forced all irrational emotions from his mind, leaving him with an unrelenting, but familiar, boredom

The matters of the day were routine. Poore was engaged in trading agreements with Choras and Medina that needed his approval. Nadia looked the agreements over, made a few changes, and he signed his name. A shephard wanted clearance to graze his flock on more land. Nadia gave him permission. A woman wanted permission to name her daughter after the Queen. Nadia agreed and gave her some blankets for the child's use.

Then there was the matter of local taxing. Some people in Truce were complaining that they were being taxed unfairly compared to Poore. Crono had to admit that taxes were definitely higher than they'd been during Nadia's father's reign, but even Nadia admitted that they were no higher than necessary. The kingdom was growing at an alarming rate. Poore was now the largest city-state in the known world, while between it and the castle numerous smaller cities had sprung up. The land had once deserted except for the odd hermit and Shittake monster. Now, there was hardly a mile between Poore and the castle that didn't have developments of some sort.

The truth was, the kingdom was growing too fast. To maintain some semblance of infrastructure, roads and farms needed to be built, and such things took resources. Nadia's father, perhaps sensing that he was approaching the end of his life, had avoided the issue, preferring to die as a loved ruler and leave the mess for his successor to clean up. And yet Crono couldn't think an ill thought of the man. He had treated Crono as his own son, and had hinted more than once that he felt Crono had acted as the foil to close the age-old gap between his daughter and himself. The old man had died without any regrets, and Crono didn't begrudge him the act.

Even so, the matter was now his problem, and he would be expected to find a solution. Even though Poore did have the largest landmass on the continent, much of that landmass was taken up with Fiona's Forest, acres upon acres of green wilderness considered holy ground, and which couldn't be disturbed for farming, timber, or the building of homes. Crono himself made sure that the place was untouched. He had a rather personal connection to it. Thus, while Poore had the largest population, it was confined to a small area and the city state produced little beyond the arts, which it was famed for. A sculpture or painting from Poore would gain much in trade from a wealthy family in Medina or Choras, and Crono himself was proud of the city's artistic achievements. The literature, too, was brilliant, as Poore was home to the foremost scholars of the day. There one could find experts not only on philosophy and religion, but also on technology, commerce, and city planning. Poore's expertise allowed for the creation of sewers, public buildings such as libraries and schools, the wide use of electricity, and safer forms of sea transportation. These leaps forward in evolution were all the more impressive for having taken place over the course of half a decade.

These advances were helped by the fact that the Zenan continent held one of the most brilliant minds in the world, that of Lucca Ashtear. Lucca had been instrumental in the establishment of Poore as a modern (or even post modern) city, and her works featured prominently in the Poorian libraries. Her presence on the Zenan continent had ensured the growth of Guardia's culture, single-handedly in some ways. For instance, though electricity was in wide use across the world, it was Lucca who had developed a way to capture the very power of the elements to produce it. Thus, while places such as Medina and Choras were still relying on fossil fuels and steam to provide them electricity, Guardia had wind turbines and solar panels that fed into large electrical storage plants.

An active inventor, Lucca was hands on with everything she did and had helped build most of the plants herself, although of late, the scientist had become reclusive, mostly keeping to her home on an island off the shore of Zenan. There she had recently begun an orphanage, and Crono assumed she was busy much of the time with the children.

In comparison to Poore's massive achievements, Truce seemed very archaic indeed. It was Crono's hometown, so he held a certain fondness for it, but while Poore had turned into a city of massive artistic and technological value, Truce had grown in size without growing in culture. Being situated along the mountains and coast, it produced little in the way of crops and remained isolated from the rest of the kingdom, which had developed south and not west towards the coast. It had already been decided that the next summer's fair, traditionally held in Truce, would be held instead in Poore, a move that had hurt the pride of many of Truce's citizens. They were mostly rugged individualists, who had begun to chafe under the mandate of paying homage to a king. As the rest of the kingdom grew without them, they began to secede more and more.

Despite all of this, Truce was an important piece of the Guardia empire. It was the largest and most accessible port town on the continent. By some quirk of the tides, it was far easier to sail a ship from Medina and Choras north to Truce than it was to sail south to Poore. It was also home to a large armory, the work of the great swordsmith Melchior, an extremely learned sage and personal friend of Crono, and one of his most trusted councilors. Though the old man didn't take much pleasure anymore in the crafting of weapons, his presence still ensured that the Guardia military, while small for the amount of land the kingdom owned, had the best equipment in the world. Not to mention, of course, Crono's own prowess in battle. Though none had witnessed it themselves, it was still widely believed that the King and Queen of Guardia both possessed powerful magic, and one had only to look at Crono to see that his body was that of a warrior. The armory had been built in Truce in order to provide an impromptu naval force with weaponry. The knowledge that such a fleet could be armed at a moment's notice, and may have the King riding at it's prow, was a huge deterrent to foreign invasion.

Indeed, it seemed Crono's greatest threats lied within his own borders. Truce's citizens, usually content with just complaining, grumbling, and eventually paying their taxes, seemed to have reached the end of their short tempers. It was midday when Crono received his nervous tax collector, who said that the month's taxes would not be coming in from Truce.

Perhaps it was a leftover of his emotions from the morning, but Crono found himself incensed at the news. His usually quiet demeanor shattered along with a glass goblet that he tossed at the wall in frustration. In one quick motion he was out of his chair, stalking around the table towards the poor tax collector.

"Damn those Trucian whores! Pig's sons and ship rats, the lot of them! This is an act of blatant secession! How would they fare without our farms and military protection?"

In his anger, Crono seemed to grow taller. A strange stuffiness overcame the entire room. Nadia felt the hairs on her head standing up the same way they did before a lightning storm. The tax collector squeaked out an incomprehensible reply and bowed repeatedly, as if this would salve the situation. On the other end of the table, though stunned by her husband's uncharacteristic outburst, Nadia managed to maintain her composure.

"And how would we fare without their trade? We have to maintain a symbiotic relationship with each of our cities, or else we're just a well provisioned castle. Please calm down."

"But they don't understand that, do they? No, this is an act of secession. They wouldn't make a claim like this unless they had something planned. They must be getting support from one of the other cities! Or maybe they've got farms hidden up in those mountains? Well, if it's war they want, then they can have it!"

The excitement in his voice shocked even him. He fell silent again. Nadia stood and dismissed the tax collector, who ran off with a final thankful bow. She felt fortunate that only one of their civil servants, heavily prone to gossip, had witnessed the episode, though she still suspected that the event would be all over the castle within the day, and spread throughout the kingdom by the end of the month.

She came over to Crono and touched his arm gently, then kissed him on the cheek. It was like kissing one of Lucca's batteries. She felt a slight jolt through her mouth.

"How about we call it quits for today?"

Crono didn't answer.

"We could go out of the castle, you know? It's been nearly a week since we last left, I think. It's been busy, hasn't it?"

Crono looked at her and nodded. His skin, which had been hot, cooled suddenly and noticeably. "Maybe you're right. Ah, by the hells, it has been rough. A bit of fresh air would be nice. A day off would be nicer."

"It's only going to be like this for a short time. It always takes a while for people to get used to a new reign. There's always grumbling. I remember father used to nearly pull his hair out when I was a child."

Crono smiled, but only shortly. He sighed and ran a hand through his own mane of hair.

"I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a ruler."

"How about simply being my husband?"

She kissed him again, this time on the lips. He gave her another weak smile that grew as an idea seemed to come to him.

"We could run away. Run away like the old days."

She smiled in return, but it was a sad smile, filled with the memories of ringing bells and the slow shock of sudden collision. He laughed.

"We're well and truly trapped then," he said. "But at least we're trapped together."

He kissed her this time, and she drew close to him. He held her in his arms, thinking that he really had everything he needed to be happy. He knew, more than anyone, that time would show this, if only he could wait. But deep within himself, he felt his rage still burning softly, a fire that made him feel more alive than he had in years.


	4. Part iii

"... and so they want the taxes lowered."

Nadia's voice was a calm amidst chaos. Lucca's main room, as always, was packed corner to corner with odds and ends, tidbits and tinkerings. And now, children. Crono sat on a rickety chair with an orphan on each knee, bouncing both of them in a steady creaking rhythm while they played a clapping game with each other, calling out a memorized rhyme in time with the claps. Nadia sat nearby at a cluttered table, sipping tea that two other children (now chasing each other around the cluttered room) had prepared for her.

Lucca Ashtear herself poked her head out from behind a mess of electronics and metal and wiped her forehead with an oily rag. Though usually quick to reply, now she simply regarded Nadia, as if debating whether an answer was required of her. Of the three friends, she had perhaps changed the most in appearance in the last five years. Although always a bookish girl, she looked even more ruffled these days, as if personal hygiene was a secondary function in her life. Her hair was cropped short to prevent her the trouble of caring for it, and her nails were chewed to the quick. She rarely wore socks, so her feet had a blackish tint to them, as if she'd walked through soot. Her glasses were huge, rather than large, and gave the constant impression that she was studying intently whatever she looked at.

When she finally did reply, she ducked back under the machinery and spoke as she worked, as if not really wanting to be part of the conversation.

"You could raise taxes in Poore. They would pay without a fuss. They enjoy the fruits of the kingdom too much to complain."

Crono dismissed the idea. It had come to him many times already. "Truce enjoys the same fruits I won't have one city paying more to make up for the faults of another."

"Fault? And what exactly is a fault?" Lucca's voice was quizzical. Crono had known her from the time he was a child, and he was keenly aware of all her little ways. He recognized her voice now as the voice she adopted when talking herself through a difficult problem. He prepared for a lecture. Lucca didn't disappoint.

"I suppose first we must look at the etymology of the word. It comes from the Zealian word fallere, which means to deceive or disappoint. But then it is also used in geology, where it indicates evidence of relative movement as designated by a fracture. Taban, could you hand me that wrench?"

One of the children running around the room veered in their course to grab the wrench and put it in Lucca's outstretched hand. She went back to talking, grunting occasionally as she tightened one bolt or loosened another.

"Of course, a fracture indicates a break between two objects. In the case of geology this can be represented as a chasm or as a simple crack in a rock... which is really just a small chasm. I suppose that's another line of inquiry, though, the relative nature of perception as based on size."

Nadia and Crono shared a bemused glance. Lucca certainly hadn't lost her ability to chase tangents.

"In this case, though, that is irrelevant. What really defines your situation is the nature of the fracture that you are perceiving as present. Obviously Truce hasn't broken in two, so it is to be assumed you are discussing a fracture between intent and action, or maybe more specifically, between expectation and reality. Which brings us to the question... what are you expecting out of Truce?"

Lucca looked at Crono, her eyes magnified behind her glasses. He felt like he was a specimen under one of her microscopes. The children clapping distracted him, he couldn't formulate a real answer. After a moment, Lucca continued.

"Of course, another meaning to the word fault is weakness, which implies then that you see Truce as weak. Which brings us to another discussion on the point of what makes something weak. The correct answer in this case, especially if the problem is mechanical, is to define where something is structurally weak and then tighten it."

As if to illustrate her point, Lucca began furiously tightening a screw bolt on the top of her machinery. A blast of steam seemed to indicate that she'd done enough. She stopped and looked at Crono again.

"Of course, tightening it too much can result in too much pressure and can bring down the whole system. In this case, strength becomes the ultimate weakness, or fault, if you will."

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Nadia giggled. "You always go too far with your explanations, Lucca." Her laughter was pleasant to Crono, relaxing him, allowing him to laugh as well. Certainly laughing was easier than trying to decipher Lucca's riddles. Nadia took another sip of tea and continued. "Anyway, the solution is simple. It's as you said, Poore's taxes will increase, and we'll lower Truce's."

Crono stopped bouncing the children on his knee. Oblivious, they continued their game. "And give in to the demands of rebels?" he said.

"They aren't really rebels. No one is contesting our reign, dear."

"Before you know it, they'll be writing their own trade agreements and charging us for access to the harbours!"

"Love, this is simply natural discontent. The kingdom is growing fast, and no one wants to be left behind."

"You're not speaking sense. No kind of discontent is natural."

"It is natural when a reign is changed. Early on a king has to be generous, to win the hearts of his people, to show them that their lives will go on as normal. There's been a lot of change lately. People are nervous. Give it time, and the grumbling will go away."

Crono put the children on the ground and stood up. "That was the way of your father. Just wait until it becomes someone else's problem."

"That's not what I meant." Nadia's voice was cold.

"Where would we have been if we'd waited for the future to just happen? Things don't just magically get better. Someone's got to take charge."

At that moment, a young girl came running in.

"Lucca! Lucca! Kid is crying! I think she fell!"

Lucca got up and wiped her hands on her trousers. Seeing her standing, Crono realized how thin she'd become. And there was something tired about the way she carried herself. It wasn't until she'd left the room, Nadia and the children following, that he realized she had simply gotten older.

Alone in the room now, Crono walked around and looked at the product of years of tinkering and collecting. Lucca had certainly kept busy. He wandered over to the machine she'd been working on before she left. To his eyes it appeared to be a random assortment of pipes, levers, and keyboards. Some parts seemed to have limited locomotion, and steam would occasionally blast out from an exposed tube. Wires stretched all over the contraption, marked with little sticky notes labeling them in an untidy scrawl which was as indecipherable as the machine itself. He felt slightly ill looking at the mess. His own room had always been relatively tidy. He was somewhat compulsive about the order of his space. He needed things to be simple in order to function. He wondered how the children who lived here fared, and suddenly imagined an entire house of Luccas, all as disorderly and chaotic as her. He shuddered.

He could hear her voice now, coming from the other room. She was talking to Nadia about Kid, the little girl she'd found in the woods near her home a year ago, the girl whom she believed had some connection with the events they'd all been involved in five years ago. The girl who had the same pendant around her neck that Nadia wore, the pendant of the royal family passed down by the Zealians. How the pendant could exist twice in the same era (for Nadia still wore hers) was a baffling conundrum. Lucca, of course, had her theories, but Crono tended to try and steer her away from such postulations. They made his head hurt.

When she'd first found Kid, it had seemed to Crono that Lucca viewed the child as simply a fascinating paradox. The very fact that Lucca had simply named the child Kid, as if categorizing her, seemed to support this theory, but listening to her coo in the other room, Crono had to admit that Lucca seemed to have real feelings for her. Nadia wasn't saying much in response and Crono imagined the pain she had to be feeling. He knew that Nadia longed for a child. She had become pregnant shortly after their marriage, but the birth had ended prematurely, and she hadn't shown signs of carrying a child since.

Though their child had never made it into the world alive, Crono still felt strangely attached to its memory. He tried not to think about it, but sometimes the sight of children would bring a sadness in his heart so strong that he would have to fight back tears. He and Nadia never talked about it. Neither wished to bring up the painful feelings. In this case, sharing woes would only increase them. Even so, he prepared himself to silently support her when he heard them coming back into the room.

However, his concern proved unnecessary. The two girls were talking contentedly about nothing in particular. Seeing Nadia so seemingly carefree made Crono feel strongly displaced, and lonely. He said little more until they left.


	5. Part iv

At night, Guardia castle became quiet, quiet made lonely by the distinct contrast to the busyness of its days. When Nadia had fallen asleep and even the lowliest servant had finished their chores, Crono would sometimes rise and wander the halls, his footsteps echoing back only to himself, a harmony to his heartbeat.

In recent days, during these restless hours of the night, his wandering had gained some direction, if not necessarily any purpose. No matter how long he wandered, he always found himself ending his walks in the basement of the castle where the kingdom's greatest treasure resided: the sword Masamune.

Masamune: the blade of dreams. The sword had a history almost as long and convoluted as time itself. Crono was one of the few people living who knew the history in its entirety. It wasn't a tidy tale. The blade had never been at the center of a war. But it had been at the outskirts of many, always present to strike a decisive blow and turn the tide towards the favour of the just and right. Justice... Crono knew what most tried to deny, that justice was a term soaked in blood. He didn't shy away from the fact, and had always felt that that made him a better person, somehow.

Looking now at the sword, Crono wondered that it looked so clean. The blood of hundreds of battles hadn't tarnished it. The sword had come to rest in the castle since the end of the middle ages, when its last possessor had given it into the hands of the royal family before he passed away. At first it had been proudly displayed in the castle's upper halls. But as the kingdom grew, and with it the castle's daily traffic, suspicion of theft had arisen and the relic had been moved. As suspicions grew higher, so the sword traveled lower, finally finding itself in the castle's deepest and most secure chamber, a chamber that only the King himself had the key to. There the gleaming broadsword sat unsheathed on a pillow of blue velvet. It never required polishing, and it never rusted. It simply sat, lit by twin electric lamps, a testament to time and the ever lasting glory of the enduring Guardia line.

Crono was in that chamber now, scrutinizing the blade and pondering its purpose. It was said to be a holy relic, but Masamune was, for all its bard sung qualities, a weapon. Could a weapon ever truly be righteous? The question plagued him.

Visiting Lucca hadn't given him the peace of mind he desired. It was true, she had fought along with him and Nadia, traveling the time stream and witnessing the whole of human history, and preventing its eventual demise; despite this, he felt more comfortable here, with the blade that had endured the same trials, rather than at Lucca's chaotic house with the person who had shared in them. A blade was ultimately a simple thing, its motives no more complex than the arm that swung it, not near as conflicted as the mind that seized it. Crono yearned for younger days when his whole being had the easy purpose of the blade. He hadn't had to consider all the little consequences, only the major one, that if he didn't act, humanity would suffer. He had been a saviour, and no one (least of all himself) had needed to question his motives. What he'd done he'd done for the good of humanity. He'd attacked those who had threatened the well being of the planet. Evil was defined. The planet itself had graced his actions with its blessings.

And now? He supposed he was reaping the benefits of his brave selflessness and sacrifice. He was, after all, ruler of the most powerful kingdom of the time. And he was married to the most beautiful woman in the land, a woman he undeniably loved. Our reign, Nadia had called it. And yet, it wasn't a true statement. More and more he realized how little he was actually needed, now that evil had been defeated. Nadia had a place in the new world they had created, but himself? At one point he had been willing to sacrifice his very existence for the future of the planet. Now it seemed a small pain in comparison to the endless meetings he endured every day.

Times had seemed simpler then. And yet, what had made them simple except men who were willing to act? What made them more complex now except the lack of such men? Perhaps one day he would be needed again. Surely evil couldn't have been vanquished, only put off for a time. Maybe Guardia would need military might more than political prowess in the future. Then he could demonstrate how much he loved his people and his country by defending it with his life. Wasn't that what had earned him the love of the people in the first place? And what had he become? These days he feasted and grew fat while his sword arm atrophied at his side, exhausted at the end of each day not from defending his country but from signing his name to treaties that had little practical meaning to him. He had weakened and, in his heart, he felt that this was the true reason Truce had turned against him.

Even Lucca had said it. A kingdom had to be strong. Wasn't that why Masamune, a weapon, had become the symbol of Guardia's legacy? Why both her rulers had once been warriors? Crono liked this line of thought and followed it to its natural end: wasn't it his duty, as King, to show the strength of Guardia in the face of adversity?

Masamune seemed to shine brighter on its pedestal. Words from the past seemed to drift from the blade to his ears, the words of the last "person" to wield it in combat.

"My hopes and dreams and those of Cyrus are held within this sword. I must wield it. The sword leads me. That is my sacrifice."

Crono nodded. Glenn had been right. There was always a need for strength. And someone always had to sacrifice themselves to be that pillar. Silently he knelt and thanked the blade in front of him. He knew now what he had to do. The Masamune did not respond. After all, it was only a weapon.

Meanwhile, in their bedroom in the highest tower, Nadia rolled over. She was dreaming that something precious to her was lost, and she couldn't find it. Her arm searched unconsciously for Crono's place in the bed, and the pendant around her neck gleamed softly in the moonlight.


	6. Part v

Crono wasted no time in setting out on his campaign to quell the rebellion of Truce. Though he barely slept during the night, he was up before dawn, gathering his Knight's Captain, Sariah, and an escort of five men the captain assured him were reliable: Arch, Redmond, Pierre, James, and Ghetz. Ghetz was the Captain's own son, a handsome young man of 18, and Crono knew him more than the others. He was amicable enough, but contemplative for his age. Crono used to fence with the soldiers when he had a spare moment (and he hadn't since taking up the burden of rulership) and had clashed blades with Ghetz. In combat the man was cool as ice, silently marking his opponent and striking blows with seemingly no effort. It was in direct contrast to Crono's own method of fighting, which was full of constant movement and energy. But he found comfort in Ghetz's silence, and the two had become as close of friends as their distant ranks allowed them.

Though he trusted Sariah's word, Ghetz was the only man accompanying him that Crono felt truly comfortable around. As he saddled his horse and donned the gold armour that would label him as King, Crono reflected idly on the fact that there was no one at the castle that had been brought in after he'd been king. All of the people who worked in the castle, from the lowliest servant to the Knight's Captain himself, had served Nadia's father. Crono felt, once again, the burden of taking over the old man's reign.

The day was still foggy and cold when they set out. Despite their early departure, a few servants and their families had come out to see them off. Nadia was not amongst them. Crono wasn't surprised. He actually hadn't told her of his plans to ride to Truce. He told himself that he was riding early in order to take care of business in an efficient manner. He tried not to think of himself as a thief, slipping away before his crime was noticed. He knew Nadia would disagree with his decision, and he didn't want his mind changed.

The chill of the morning air was refreshing and put all doubt out of his mind as he rode through the Guardia Forest with his escort. The Forest had always been beautiful, and in recent years that beauty had been tamed and cultivated, making the forest a place of true serenity. Crono himself had been at the head of the restoration project during his years as prince. It was one of the few projects he could truly call his own, and he was proud of the results. The paths, which had begun to be overgrown, had been cleared, and beds of flowers lined them now, creating a visual masterpiece, waves of color disappearing into an eternity of green. Over these paths the trees hung their leaf-heavy branches like arches, leaving just enough room for the sun to make its way through, casting the path in dappled yellow. The achievement he was most proud of, however, was the termination of the monsters from the woods. The Shittake and the Blue Eaglets that had once plagued travelers in the wood had been all but eliminated through sanctioned hunting and paid extermination. Unfortunately, this had its consequences as well. Whereas his people had first rejoiced at the removal of these threats, after the creatures were gone they began to complain. Suddenly numerous supporters for the Blue Eaglet began to come out of the woodwork. Facts he hadn't even known began to emerge, such as that the Eaglet had once been the symbol of the Knights of the Square Table. As for the Shittake, Lucca herself had come to him with scientific evidence showing how important the mushroom creatures were to the soil of the forest. He'd banned the hunting and slowly the ecosystem began to balance itself out. Everyone was happy and he received no further complaints. But it was the last time he ever tried to involved himself directly in politics.

At least, until now. Though in his mind, this wasn't politics... this was war. This was something he knew.

Leaving the Guardia Forest behind, the riders entered the wide plains-land that stretched east to the sea town of Truce. Here and there was a small village, which Crono led them through. The villagers came out and bowed to him as he passed. Occasionally a child would stop their playing to wave. The sight of the children with their mothers would sadden him, and he couldn't bring himself to wave back. His heart was generally light, however. He hadn't ridden through his kingdom in ages, it felt like, and his feeling that being stuck in the castle was affecting his demeanor was confirmed. His body felt more comfortable in the saddle of his horse than in the tall backed thrones of his reception hall.

The Zenan mainland was relatively small. Really it was two connected islands, with Poore and Fiona's forest taking up most of the Southern island, and Guardia, Truce, and Thera (as the new sprawl of cityscape between Poore and Guardia was called) taking up most of the Northern island. One could ride from the southern point in Poore to the northern Guardia mountains in little under a week. Going from the West Guardia coast to the East was possible in three days. The small size of the continent was one of the reasons a Kingship was manageable. Putting down a rebellion was an easy task, as well, since an army could get anywhere on the continent within a week. Even so, Crono had little hope of reaching Truce in a single day. He didn't try, letting the party ride fairly leisurely, though they rested little. The men behind him chatted pleasantly, and by listening to them, Crono started to gain some understanding of their character.

Arch, a young handsome blonde with a clean shaven face, was the most talkative of all of them. Arch always seemed to have something to say, and he usually found a way to tie any conversation back to himself or his history. By the end of the first day of riding, Crono knew a good chunk of this history. Arch had been born in Poore to a wealthy family. He'd joined the knights ostensibly as a way to get away from such wealth, thinking that he should get out from his pampered life style. It hadn't worked, judging from the way he complained about everything from the briskness of the air to the uncomfortable nature of his saddle. He owned his own horse, too, and it was a remarkable breed, better than Crono's own stallion. Despite his spoiled way of living, though, his good nature endeared him with the others and Crono quickly learned to recognize his barking laugh, which he sounded often.

Arch was good friends with Redmond, who had also grown up in Poore, though to a poorer family. Together the two provided most of the entertainment on the trip, as Redmond always had some witty comment or comeback to anything Arch would say, usually some galling insult or attack on his character (which Arch would answer with a laugh). Redmond often wore a smile to match Arch's laugh, though he didn't share in his friend's good looks. It wasn't so much any natural defects to his appearance as it was the way he carried himself, riding with a slight slouch and seeming to take no care with his messy brown hair, which often hung in his eyes.

Pierre was an older man with a thick paunch and a thick mustache, supposedly a veteran of war who had rode for the previous captain and who had helped repel a short lived Mystic attack in 980 AD. He was truly comfortable with a horse, and he would occasionally doze off in the saddle, subconsciously guiding the animal with his knees. He seemed to save his words, though Crono wasn't sure what for. When he spoke it was rarely to say anything important or even interesting.

James was a bit of a mystery. He conversed freely with Arch and Redmond, and seemed an accepted member of the group. But something was strangely off about him. It was little things, such as his naiveté around the politics and economy combined with an extensive knowledge of science and history, or his tendency to go from intent to care free in a single sentence, that clashed in his character to lend him a curious air, and even sad, air. He was enigmatic and even somewhat self focused. It was obvious to Crono that he wasn't really paying attention to the conversation. His mind was on something else.

Crono came to see that Sariah was a good captain. He kept himself out of most of the conversation and from time to time gave small unimportant orders (such as to close formation), keeping everyone aware that he was in command. He didn't, however, hold back from laughing at a joke or making one of his own. From the easy way his men carried themselves around him, Crono knew that they both respected and (more impressive) liked their captain. There was certainly a lot to like. The man was tall, well built, with strong features and rugged good looks. He was intelligent and, from what Crono had seen in the training halls, a master at the sword. If he had one weakness, it might have been his son Ghetz, whom he doted on as much as decorum allowed.

Through all of this Ghetz rode mostly silently, though he would occasionally break in on the conversation with something either so witty or so profound that it would start a new conversation. Crono's already high respect for the man grew during the ride, and he complimented himself on his decision to bring him. His skills and charisma were going to be put to good use in this campaign.

That night the party camped in a small glade. After a pleasant meal consisting of more conversation over smoked meat, they slept. The hard ground felt better to Crono's back than ever his feathered mattress at the castle had. In the morning, he got up and strode to the edge of the glade to find himself on a cliff overlooking the sea. The sun turned the sea to gold. Seagulls cried their hearts away on the easy breeze that smelled of salt and freedom. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. The feeling came over him suddenly, as wine will bubble and then pour out of an uncorked cask. It was as if the feeling had been within him for ages, but only now was coming to the surface. He realized, too, that this beauty was his. It was his kingdom. He would care for it, he would preserve this beauty and keep it to pass on to the next age. Wasn't that what he had fought for five years ago, what they had all fought for?

Even as the feeling came, it left, leaving him aware of it but unable to recapture the emotions that had pulled his heart into his throat and brought tears to his eyes. Crono watched the sun rise, only returning to camp when he heard the captain ordering the men to look for him. When they set out to ride, he established a more brisk pace. They'd be at Truce by the end of the day.


	7. Part vi

The Quayside Inn was busy, or rather as busy as it ever got on a Winter's night in Truce. Fritz sat at his usual table, one near the window, with his friends Wedge, Biggs, and Dallon. The Quayside was aptly named, as it overlooked the wharf where the numerous trading vessels from Medina and Choras unloaded. Fritz liked to look out at the ships in the dusk. Unlike his wife, Elaine, who frequently took the ferry to Poore, he had no desire to ever undertake a sea voyage. The very thought made him ill. He did like, however, to look at the ships and contemplate where they had come from and who they brought with them. Truce, though spread out across the coast, only had a permanent population of around a couple hundred, yet at any given time that number could be increased five fold by merchants and tradesmen coming in from the other continents. Here, at the end of Winter, trade had yet to really pick up again, but there was a fair number of ships docked. From his window seat, Fritz gave them a silent welcome and raised his tankard in salute.

"Oi, Fritz. You paying attention to this drivel?"

Fritz looked away from the window towards Dallon, who was addressing him in his rough voice, a sardonic smile planted beneath his heavy black mustache.

"What? Uh..." he tried to recall the threads of the conversation that had been going on at his table. Wedge saved him from having to form a more cohesive answer.

"Oi, here, it's not drivel," the young man said, scratching his pock marked face. "Least ways, Gregoire doesn't think its drivel. Aye, you seen em... he's been raising a lot of fuss over the issue."

"Gregoire's an idiot," Dallon replied. "He's just trying to make his mark on history, and Truce ain't big enough for him to do it. He's throwing a fit. How old is he now, 25? He should know better."

"Oi, now, mate... I wouldn't be so sure about that. He's got a good number of supporters. Samdel's been raising a fuss around town, too. You know Samdel's well liked, eh?"

"Samdel's a trouble maker. Always has been. He's always looking for attention. Comes with being the youngest in a family. And ever since James left, he's had no one to fight with."

"It's not just Samdel, though, is it? This isn't just another prank. The mayor's letting it happen. That's as good as giving his support, it is."

Dallon didn't respond. He seemed hesitant to say anything against the mayor, who had been a pillar of the community for over fifty years.

Wedge saw his chance, and continued. "His daughters, too, you know, they've gotten their husbands behind him. Little Romana is too young to be part of anything, right, but that's still five families, you know. Frederick was in here the other day giving a big speech. He's married to Alba, you know. Mary and Gregory are in support of it. Haven't heard from Jessica, yet." Wedge took a carefully timed sip of ale, but didn't take his eyes off Dallon, who was glowering into his own drink.

"Never you mind what Jessica thinks," he said darkly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Dallon shot Fritz a sideways glance. Fritz returned the look, but he didn't really know what was expected out of him. Certainly he couldn't think of anything to say.

Dallon apparently picked up something from his stare because he tossed off his sulk and spoke again. "Just you watch. This will die off as soon as the season picks up. People are just bored. Get em back to their shops and their fields, and they'll be too busy to talk about anything except their beds waiting at the end of a day."

"He does raise some valid points, you know, Dallon, he does." Biggs spoke up, his large bulbous eyes staring straight ahead, giving his statement a casual air. "If all the business is moving down to Poore, then shouldn't the taxes follow, I say?"

So that's what it was. Fritz let the conversation slip away from him again. He didn't care to engage in talks of politics. The Poore situation didn't worry him. Truce had been the center for the ferry trade for years, and as long as that continued, Truce would hold an important place in the kingdom. In his opinion, people were just scared by how fast Poore was growing. Even Thera, located at the north end of Zenan bridge, was beginning to frankly explode with people, and simply from Poore's spill over. He himself found it surprising, just as he had found it surprising when he'd heard the summer's festival was to be moved to Poore, along with Nadia's bell. But Fritz had always stuck to one basic principle of politics that he didn't care to change... he had to believe in his Lord, the King. He would believe in his Lord.

In the middle of the inn, a bard started plucking at a stringed instrument. Fritz caught a glimpse of him and frowned. He'd never seen this man before. His manner of dress was... odd. In particular his hat, which sported a large golden feather that sagged and trailed down his back. The bard's surprisingly feminine voice carried through the inn and Fritz let himself get lost in the words. As far as he could tell, it was a traveler's song:

_"Home is where I want to be but I've been torn_

_from out its pages for a need to be reborn;_

_taking all of the last chances I can get,_

_the distance multiplies in rhythm with the debt;_

_For any prayers you send my way that I get by,_

_I'll pay you back when I've returned;_

_I'll pay you back when I've returned._

_You said the town life's not for me;_

_it wasn't big enough for who I'm meant to be, but_

_it's not easy, taking it along_

_every street recalls the time I saw you last;_

_every avenue a moment in our past;_

_For every story that I bottle up in time,_

_I'll tell you each when I've returned;_

_I'll tell you each when I've returned._

_It's getting dark now and there's not much left to say;_

_just leave a light out each night and I'll find the way_

_back to arms and eyes where I want to be found;_

_not these silhouettes that never make a sound;_

_For any candles that you burn so I might see,_

_I'll pay you back when I've returned;_

_I'll pay you back when I've returned."_

Fritz was about to get up and give the man a bit of coin when the door to the inn was thrown open and fourteen year old Samdel, the mayor's youngest son (of three sons and six daughters), charged in.

"Gregoire is fighting the king's men at the residence!"

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Fritz was out of his chair and being swept out the door along with the other drinkers. He couldn't pinpoint his reasons for following them. He had just brushed off any connection to politics, but his free will had been stolen away by circumstance. He didn't really feel he had a choice in the matter. One second he was fondling a coin in his pocket and secure in his position as a anonymous greeter to travelers, the next he was outside in the brisk dusk air, joining a small mob.

Fritz looked around him at the gathered villagers. Though some were holding torches, none really looked prepared to fight. Everyone seemed gathered almost by chance. Fritz doubted if anyone had any idea of what they were doing, any more than he had. In a daze he looked for some connection to what had been a normal life only seconds before, but though he knew everyone in Truce, their faces now seemed unfamiliar. He didn't see Biggs or Wedge. Dallon was next to him, but he didn't speak. It was as if events had them all enscorcled. Together, they followed Samdel and the mob up a hill towards the Mayor's Residence.

Fritz recalled another time when he'd been swept into events beyond his control, about five years ago. The memories came back to him now, so that the stone path leading up the hill seemed to become colder and darker, the stone hall of a dungeon, the torches carried by Samdel and his friends fitting eerily well into the image. He hadn't had time to say goodbye to Elaine. The monsters in the guise of men had come for him in the night, led him away on charges that weren't his to answer to. As the hill climbed steeper, Fritz felt his legs turning to lead, yet they wouldn't stop. He was being dragged away by some force outside of himself. All he could think was that it was Fate, that hand of unbendable iron which listened to neither reason nor pleading. He tried to remember how it ended, attempted to plead his survival out of history. But no... his sentencing had been quick. Death by torture.

Except that HE had appeared. The one man who could change Fate. Even as the jaws of death had closed on Fritz, he'd been pulled from them. The man had made it seem effortless.

Now the party crested the hill and, though he knew the man would be there, Fritz felt the shock of seeing him again in the flesh. His Lord. The man who had saved his life.

Crono and the soldiers remained on horseback as the mayor and his oldest son stood against them, raging against his verdict. The son, a man named Gregoire, was by far the more vocal. Crono took notice of his well built body. He could easily be a soldier, at least physically. Crono doubted if the man (he guessed he was around his own age, maybe a little younger) had ever actually been in a combative situation. Maybe he'd seen some brawls, but he'd never killed a man.

Loud voices and footsteps announced the arrival of more villagers, some of them holding torches that cast a sombre light on their faces. Crono might have recognized some of the faces from his childhood, had he cared to look. As it were, he barely glanced in the direction of the newcomers. A few ran forward, four women (followed by their husbands) and a young man, and he guessed they were part of the mayor's family. But his attention remained focused on the mayor's oldest son. The man was raging to the crowd, now, speaking openly against Crono's new law. It was proof, the proof he'd wanted, that his subjects weren't loyal. Now Nadia would have to admit he was taking care of things in the only possible way. First, he'd have to teach them respect.

Crono inched his horse forward. Behind him towered the mansion that was the mayor's residence, built centuries ago when Truce was first founded, and maintained throughout the years by local tax. Crono noted with chagrin that it didn't seem to be lacking. The lights from the gigantic windows poured out onto the hill, casting Crono in a dim light that clashed violently with the flare of the torches. His armour shined in the light, and his mane of red hair framed his face like fire. "I've listened to your complaints. Now I shall repeat my verdict. As penalty for rebellion and tax evasion, Truce will be made into a temporary military state. You will answer no longer to the mayor, but to the king's soldiers. The Mayor's residence will be given to them."

Gregoire, showing no fear, no respect, ran forward. "You'll be taking away our home!"

Crono gave him a wry smile. "You can have it back as soon as the rebel leaders come forward and issue their formal apology and subservience to the crown."

The words had the effect he wanted. He'd talked again with the tax collector before riding out, and he was well aware of who had started the trouble. He had pinned him in this moment. Gregoire could see the challenge he had issued. Crono was giving him no choice but to dishonor himself. Either he had to come forward and denounce his own attempts at rebellion, which would take the power out of any future attempts, or he had to let his family lose their home and position in defence of it, a move that wouldn't earn him any favour, either.

Gregoire stood, shaking in one spot while he pondered his choices. Meanwhile, Crono turned his horse and addressed his men. "Ghetz, from this moment you are in temporary control of Truce. You will administer its taxes and laws, and send reports directly to me. For now, the other soldiers will accompany you. I will send more upon my return to the castle. Sariah, you will ride with me."

Ghetz hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Crono looked back at Gregoire, who still hadn't answered. "Alright, Ghetz," Crono said. "Take up residence."

Ghetz turned his horse towards the house. The other soldiers began to follow. As James came into the light, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Gregoire yelled out. "So, James! This is how you return to your hometown! You take over the house of your father by force!"

James didn't respond, though he noticeably stiffened in his saddle. So he was part of the mayor's family. Crono rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A strange coincidence, that Sariah would choose for this mission the man who had grown up as the middle child of the mayor's family. An ugly mistake? or something deliberate that Crono did not yet see? He'd decide later. For now, he was simply pleased that James was holding himself together.

Gregoire made his move just as Crono was about to turn back to the crowd and disband them with a few choice words. The man grabbed a torch from his younger brother and ran forward, brandishing it against Crono's horse. The animal reared in fear and pain. Sariah was instantly at the horse's side, grabbing for its reigns, and placing himself between the angered Gregoire and his Lord, but it was too late. Crono fell from the saddle and hit the ground hard. His panicked horse pounded the earth around him. Sariah couldn't see if Crono had been struck by the animal's powerful hooves. He concentrated on bringing the horse under control, trying not to think of the sound of the fall, and the gasp of breath he'd heard Crono release; hoping it wasn't his last.

The other soldiers were riding back from the house, having heard the horse cry. The mob was silent. Gregoire hadn't made another move. His face was pale in the light of his torch. It turned paler as Crono let out a grunt and began to rise from the ground. In one hand he held a sheathed katana.

Crono rose to full height and looked around him casually, taking in the scene. Within seconds, the other soldiers were off their horses and holding Gregoire. The man didn't struggle. Ghetz grabbed the torch from his hand. James hovered at the edge of the fire light, still mounted, his horse inappropriately choosing this time to graze on the grass of the hill.

Crono leaned easily on his sheathed blade and looked at Gregoire. "To attack the Lord of the Land is a matter of the highest treason. You have struck a blow against your very king. The punishment for this is death by torture." Unseen, Fritz stiffened in the crowd. Gregoire's knees gave way and he stumbled forward, held up only by Arch and Redmond. Though they held him strongly, their faces betrayed a hint of fear and trepidation. Pierre stood nearby, keeping an eye on the crowd. His face showed no emotion.

Crono let the moment hang for a moment. Then he straightened. "Release him!" His voice was calm, but there was a definite tone of command behind the calm. The soldiers felt it as a gathering storm, and they obeyed instantly. Crono spoke again. "One of you... give him your blade." This order the soldiers were less quick to follow. Sariah approached Crono and whispered warnings in his ear. Crono ignored him and stepped forward. "Will none of you lend your blade to this man?"

Finally, James stirred and rode slowly forward towards his brother. He paused in the saddle, looking down at him, then unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. Gregoire didn't move. Crono waved his hand impatiently at the blade. "Pick it up." He sighed when the man just looked at him. "You wanted a chance to strike against your king, then I'm giving it to you. Raise your blade against me like a man. If you want to cut me down, then here's your chance. A fair fighting chance."

Gregoire looked around him, his eyes begging for help, but no-one else moved. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the blade. In response, Crono unbuckled his armour. Made and designed by Melchior, the armour came off quickly. While he undressed, he spoke. "If you are going to raise a blow against any man, you must be prepared to look him in the face as you strike. You must be prepared to be struck down yourself. Are you willing to make that sacrifice? If you are, then show me!"

Within a minute, Crono was stripped of the golden plate, revealing his muscular frame. He went into a fighting crouch and placed his hand on his blade. He waited. Gregoire raised his blade. Crono's thumb pushed the edge of his katana, pushing it an inch out of the scabbard. The two men stared at each other. Then Gregoire dropped his blade, fell to his knees, and vomited.

Crono straightened, looking at the man with contempt. The crowd was still. The only sound was that of Gregoire expelling his stress onto the grass. In silence, Crono recovered his armour, dressed, and mounted. In silence, he and Sariah rode away from the scene. There was no more need for words. The rebellion was over.

Fritz backed away as the horses strode past him. His Lord didn't even turn in the saddle, didn't give a single sign of recognition. The whole event had been quick, had happened in a matter of minutes, but for Fritz they were eternal. He felt the disgrace of the entire town and wondered at it... he couldn't even recall whether there really had ever been a rebellion. Certainly he hadn't rebelled... had he? Guilt overcame him from a source unknown and from somewhere deep within him a hidden knowledge sprang up. Fate would not be denied. The thought wasn't entirely his own and all the more frightening for it. It was as if Fate had been watching him for the last five years, not denied, no... simply delayed. Fritz felt its jaws on him. He had to believe. He simply had to believe in his Lord.


	8. Part vii

After leaving the hill, Sariah asked a lot of questions about Crono's health and his fall, but eventually Crono sated his anxieties, and the two rode in silence. Crono felt pleased by the way events had played out, but also unsatisfied. He was certain that after his embarrassment of the mayor's son, no further rebellion would be attempted. He had fallen from his horse on purpose, to test the boy, to see how far he was willing to go, betting that his will would give out, showing the people just how weak their potential rabble rouser was. Crono had accomplished his mission, but the reward was bitter sweet. All he had left to him was to return to the castle and the drudgery of his every day life. That Nadia would be there with him was some source of comfort, but not enough.

Crono and Sariah were passing through the western gates of Truce when Crono stopped his horse and cocked his head, listening. A low gong seemed to echoe through the air, the sound of a far distant memory. He looked at Sariah. if the captain had heard anything, he hadn't reacted. Crono turned his horse towards the sound, towards the north. "I need to make a stop. Alone."

Sariah gave him a concerned look. "Do you think that wise, my Lord? After all, after the incident tonight, I do fear for your safety."

"I will be fine. Ride on without me, due west. In about a mile, you'll come to a small wood. We'll make camp there." Crono pointed towards the west, towards a distant stand of trees that he knew well, for he had played there as a child. Then, without another word to his concerned captain, he galloped off.

The north of Truce had once been the busiest part of the town, back when Crono had lived there. But with the growth of trade and the importance of the ferry, most of the residents had moved south. There were still houses clustered along the roads, but none were occupied, and so Crono rode through a ghost town, with only the moss present to mark his passage. The sound he'd heard earlier, that of a bell, rang in his mind, and it drove him forward towards the north-most end of Truce, the old festival grounds.

Presently he reached his destination, marked by an old metal archway. Though it had only been built five years ago, it was already rusting from the sea air. Cleverly woven into the metal was a pattern of roses, grey and lonely in the night. Crono hesitated under the archway. Beyond it, the festival grounds lay obscured in darkness, and the sight made him feel strange. It had been so long since he'd felt the emotion that it took him a minute to realize he was afraid. If nothing else, that made up his mind. Sitting tall in his saddle, he coaxed his reluctant steed underneath the archway.

Crono looked about him at the festival grounds. He'd been here just last year to commemorate the summer festival. Then the grounds had been packed with vendor's stalls, the brightly coloured tents of the various merchants, and the smell of freshly grilled food wafted through the air. Entertainers had walked, danced, or cartwheeled across the cobbled stones, and the spray of the many fountains had glistened in the bright sun. He'd been with Nadia, then. The color of the summer sky had been reflected in her eyes. Now he was alone. No merchants or entertainers to spread their wares and craft. No smell of cooking food. The cobbled stones were covered with the dead leaves of Fall. The sun was setting, casting everything in an orange tint and bringing the stonework and marble fountains into sharp contrast with the yellow and green of the leaves. Despite a feeling that eyes were watching him from the shadows of the sunset, all was normal and still.

Crono dismounted, tied his horse to a statue of a hoofed deity caught in a moment of dance, and moved further in on foot. Drawn by the beauty of the setting sun, he failed to recall that the sun had already set nearly two hours ago, and that Fall was long over. But he was aware that something was odd. Marble benches which last summer had been in perfect condition were now cracked, some even broken into dust where they'd stood. The fountains had run dry, and the carvings of fish and water sprites that adorned them had chipped. He stopped by one, a large fountain set up near the middle of the festival grounds, and stared at the carvings. The fountain depicted a carefully constructed moment in some nameless era, where four naked nymphs exploded out of the sea, the splash frozen in time. Above them, they supported a bowl, out of which sprung a spire of flame. Stone salamanders basked in its white flare.

"The fire used to light up," a voice said.

More curious than startled (anything seemed possible in this timeless place), Crono walked around to the other side of the fountain. A young bard was sitting on the marble lip of the fountain's pool, plucking idly at the strings of his instrument. He wore a strange hat with a golden feather falling from it. Crono stopped to watch him. Though the very fact of his presence in this dead world was strange, he seemed so much a part of the scene that Crono couldn't help but think the bard belonged there.

"The fire," the bard said. "The water coloured it red."

With that, the bard played a few chords and then began to sing:

"_Somewhere,_

_Beyond the rain and autumn plains_

_the snow_

_That litters the countryside_

_I find a piece of you_

_And somewhere_

_Beyond the frozen fields_

_I clearly see_

_The end of our misery_

_A part of the place we knew _

_And slowly down through the fire,_

_burning_

_Into this darkness I fall_

_Your presence right here beside me,_

_yearning_

_Through it all_

_And somewhere_

_Beyond the hills_

_below the horizon sun_

_A life that has just begun_

_A life we're meant to know"_

The bard ended the song abruptly. The music, which had seemed to be pouring from the instrument of its own free will, ceased with the motions of his hand. He seemed to be lost in thought, staring down at his feet. Crono cocked his head, wondering whether he should say anything, not liking being ignored. Finally he spoke. "It changed the color of the water. One of Lucca's inventions. The fountain, I mean, and the fire. It was coloured water, or lights, or something. I remember."

The bard turned his head, not slowly, but with infinite deliberateness. "Do you, now? Or... do you just think you remember? Maybe it actually hasn't happened yet. Maybe it never happened. Indeed, it's always been like this. And never like this."

"No, I was here. I was here when it was different."

"That's not saying much. All you have to do is change your perception of something and it becomes different. You can live an entire life from the comfort of a throne, without ever leaving. Indeed, without ever knowing you are there. Or were there. Or will continue to be there."

"A throne, huh? Interesting choice of words. I take it you know who I am?"

"Know you? I don't know anyone. For to know someone else we must first know ourselves, and that is a reflection no mirror can show us."

The bard stood suddenly and began to walk away. Crono followed automatically.

"I am the King of Guardia."

Crono thought it sounded rather grand, but the bard merely shrugged.

"A modifier. Something added and without any more meaning than a name. Just a way to recognize you without seeing who you really are. What is a King, after all, except an illusion of the people?"

"A King is a leader."

"And what is a leader?"

The bard stopped, seeming to have reached his destination, a wide paved road that curved around the fair grounds in a circular track. Without any tents blocking his view, Crono could see the full mile it described.

"A leader," Crono said, thinking. "Uh, someone who the people follow."

"By choice or by force?"

"Well, by choice, of course."

"But a King is not chosen. He is not elected, and his will is not debated. A King is born or married to his position."

"All the more reason for the King to be a good ruler, someone who the people can follow with pride and dignity."

"And have you been a good leader?"

The bard turned. At this distance, Crono was struck by how bright his eyes were, an almost neon green. His skin was alabaster white. His hair was bright yellow. It hurt just to look at him. Crono knew he couldn't hold the man's gaze for long. When the bard spoke again, it was a welcome relief, giving Crono something else to focus on.

"Run with me," the bard said.

The bard began to move at a trot down the track. Crono felt silly listening to the strange man's request, but he began to run nonetheless. As he caught up with the bard, their pace increased.

"You followed me." The bard spoke effortlessly, despite their running.

"You asked me to."

"But that's not why you followed me. You hope to make sense out of something senseless. You insist on reacting to me as if I make sense. So it is that you try to make sense out of the world."

The bard ran faster, and Crono kept at his side. They continued to increase their speed until the fair grounds around them turned into a blur. Crono knew they were running faster than was humanly possible, and yet Crono felt no resistance. He wasn't tired, and his muscles, he realized, could work even harder. He pushed himself, more a thought than an effort of will, and his body turned into a blur, a sweeping of colors that began and ended wherever he decided to look. He was free from the normal constraints of perception.

Out of this existence, the bard again spoke, or at least it sounded like words. "This is the world as I once saw it. A constant series of choices and perceptions, never truly solid until given heart. It is my belief that this is the world as it is meant to be."

At once Crono stopped running. It wasn't a gradual slowing to a halt, it was a sudden stop, as if he'd never been running in the first place. He was back in the fairgrounds, though in a different part. Instead of the track, there was a wide plaza, and in it the middle of it, supported by two twin pillars, a large bell that Crono recognized instantly, though it was now dirty and stained with rust. It had, after all, been placed there in honor of everlasting peace, after he had saved the future from disaster. It was named, too, after Nadia. The very sight of the bell brought thoughts of her to his heart. He pained to see it in such disrepair, as if Nadia herself had been hurt by its lack of upkeep. After the vibrancy and possibilities of the world Crono had just seen, the fairgrounds in all their grandeur seemed dead and dull.

"You can't exist in that world." The bard's voice was simultaneously sad and annoyed, a tone of begrudging pity. He was standing next to Crono, a grimace on his face. "But of all the places you could exist, I never understood why you'd choose this."

"Me? But I didn't make this place."

"You did." The bard walked forward, perfunctorily examining a dent in the side of Nadia's bell. As he reached out a hand to touch the dent, Crono felt bizarrely offended, as if his personal property had been violated. "You have made this place and believe in it as much as you made and believe yourself King."

"But I didn't make myself King. It was passed down to me by Nadia's father."

"Oh, you certainly had help creating that reality, I'll give you that. An imperfect example on my part. But this place? This was entirely of your own making. It has never existed before this moment, as I said earlier, and yet now that we're here it has existed forever, waiting."

Crono looked around him. The sun's glow held no warmth. The wind had lost all strength, barely disturbing the piles of dead leaves amidst the rubble of statues and walls long gone to dust. Nadia's bell creaked ominously as it hung. More grime formed before his eyes on the lip of the bell. He felt a chill run down his back. The bard seemed to notice.

"Do you not like this outcome? But this is the path you've created. Why are you not prepared to walk down it? Would you like to choose another?"

"I'm not sure what I did to make this place. I don't understand how it came to be."

"Do you not? No, I guess you wouldn't. You won't ever understand, either. As long as this place exists, you can't."

"I'd like to make another."

The bard shook his head. "A predetermined response to the question, I'm afraid. You can't really make another path, simply because you don't. This is the future you end up making for yourself. Though I do wish you'd put in some benches."

The bard stretched and then walked around Nadia's bell, still examining it, leaning close to peer at its dulled surface, rubbing a bit of dirt off the bell and mashing it between his long fingers.

"But this isn't where I want to be," Crono protested.

"Whether or not you like it isn't really up to you, either."

"So then this is fate?"

"Fate and free will are illusions, both. We created fate so that we didn't have to take responsibility for our actions. And we created free will in order to make us feel like we had some power over our lives."

"But there has to be one or the other. Either we make our own decisions, or they are pre-made for us. They can't both be illusions."

The bard circled the bell as he spoke. "Why not? Why can't things just happen as they happen, with no explanation for the why? The Question was among humanity's greatest and most useless inventions. It keeps you stuck in one reality, without acknowledging that more than one can exist at a single time. You've built your own prisons, and locked your own doors. But you're not satisfied. You have to line your prison walls with as many things as possible. You bring in other people, other creatures... you even invent new objects to fill your tiny space until you're convinced that you're indeed living in reality because you can no longer see your own prison from all the clutter."

Crono felt an extreme confusion. It went beyond the problem of deciphering the bard's words. It was an issue of even being able to process them. He felt very tired, very helpless, and slightly ill.

The bard came around the bell again and peered behind it at Crono. "You know that there's no fate, because otherwise you would rest easy in the knowledge that your actions were decided for you. But you know that there's no choice, either, or else you wouldn't be here. This is the place you chose... no, that's not right. It's the place you will choose for yourself."

Crono cocked his head and crossed his arms, a posture he often assumed when he didn't understand something. "I'm ready to be done with this. I want to leave this place."

"You will, soon."

The bard cocked his head and crossed his arms, imitating Crono. Suddenly Crono was angry. Angry at the bard for wasting his time, angry because he did not understand what the bard was saying, angry because the people of Truce had forced his hand, angry for having to lead people, angry because he did not want a uncertain future, though it could exist as nothing else.

The bard laughed at him and began to fondle Nadia's bell. There was no other word for it. His hands caressed the bell's curves. Where his fingers touched, the bell seemed to quiver and regain some of its original golden sheen. The bard giggled like a girl and kissed the bell's lip.

Crono's sword was in his hand and he rushed forward. Through his blind rage, he didn't see whether he struck the bard or not. He heard an unearthly screech of metal on metal and a loud crack. His arm ached from the impact. When he opened his eyes, the bard was gone, and his blade was embedded in the bell. Around the wound he'd made, red liquid bubbled and dripped.

Suddenly. the bell cracked unevenly down the middle with a final low gong that ended in another high banshee's screech as the metal scraped against itself before falling apart, split into two.

Crono's stomache lurched at the sound, and in the same movement he opened his eyes and sat up. It was night. Embers burned low in the fire pit in front of him. The trees above him whispered gentle things in the wind. After a moment he was able to put together these images, and he realized that he was in the grove. The captain wasn't there, and, though he had no true memory of the act, he recalled that Sariah had gone to collect more wood for the fire.

So had it been a dream, then? Or was this another illusion? Already the memories were fading, leaving him with the same sort of unease that has, of late, invaded his being . More than anything, the unease, so familiar by now, convinced him that he'd indeed come back to his senses. Yet one image stayed with him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw again the cracked and bleeding bell. More confusing to him than the meaning of the image were the tears that came of their own will, rolling down his cheeks as he remembered the bell's conclusive note.


	9. Part viii

The kingdom of Guardia was one of three major kingdoms in the conglomeration of continents that made up the known world. Of the other two, the Middle continent was called Medina and the far Western continent Choras. Neither had the power of the Guardia kingdom. As Guardia was made up of two land masses bridged by the enormous Zenan Bridge, it had access to far more land and population to secure its power. The other two continents had, nonetheless, made their mark on the world, and continued to be important allies in trade. Medina was the kingdom of the Mystics, sentient monsters who had once fought and lost a great war against humanity. Never truly trusted by humans, the Mystics preferred to stay isolated on their continent, and had never spread beyond its borders. By good fortune, Medina was rich in minerals, including the precious ore and iron that was used to make most weapons. Thus they were important enough to maintain trade with, and through trade the Mystics were able to maintain a dignified economy. Choras, on the other hand, was a colder climate of mostly farmland and forest, once peaceful, but now favoured by thieves and ruffians for its remoteness. What Choras couldn't offer in resources or high culture, however, it made up for with the best ale on the planet. This secured the Choras brewers a spot in the trade routes, as well as giving them the distinction of having the best taverns in the known world. As for the non-brewing residents, they all plied their trade where they could, whether that be as mercenaries or craftsman, and when work wasn't readily available, they drank away their troubles in the taverns.

It was common knowledge that the best of these taverns to be in on a Winter's night was the Hearthstone, aptly named for having the largest hearth in Choras.

It was here, several weeks after Truce had been declared under martial law, that four travelers gathered at a table near a piano that sang out song after song at the skilled coaxing of a Kilwala's soft touch. The four characters had never met, but each shared a liking for dark ale and a desire for the crackling fire place, heaped with logs. One of them had also proved to be quite a story teller, and this more than anything kept them together through three pitchers and several restockings of the fire.

This storyteller wore a dark hooded robe, and as he kept his chin tilted down and never took the hood off, his features were shadowed. At the moment, he was finishing up an adventurous story with a great flurry of gestures and a vibrant voice that clashed with his secretive dress: "... and when the guard came to check the empty cell, I dropped down behind him and knocked him out!" He demonstrated the move with a swift jab that rocked the table and spilled a bit of the current pitcher. By this time, the others were too drunk to care about the wasted ale.

"A fine tale! A fine tale! In my opinion, jailers deserve each punch to the head we can give em!" This came from the carpenter, a large man with a red nose and cheeks that puffed out under the bushy line of a thick mustache. He wore a fur hat that was a size too small for him (it continually slipped off his bald head). His name had never made it around the group, but he was a regular at the Hearthstone and other Choras inns. A legendary drunkard, he finished up his statement by taking a massive swig of stout.

"More ale, wench!" Griff, an ugly, skinny man with the sly appraising look of a professional pickpocket, snapped his long fingers at the nearest waitress. His large eyes (a deep blue in beautiful contrast to the rest of his body) studied ruefully the dwindling pitcher.

"This one's on me, lads," the hooded figure said, bringing a joyous belch from the carpenter, who then polished off his current glass and went to pour another.

The carpenter was intercepted by Tomas, another Choras resident, who batted his hand away and poured the] remains of the pitcher into his own half empty glass. He addressed the stranger: "A kind gesture, sir, though really we should be paying you for the entertainment."

Tomas, the charismatic descendant of a long line of well known adventurers, usually felt the burden of being the center of attention and was glad to pass the baton to a willing stranger. The stranger seemed to have an endless supply of stories, and each one seemed to top the last. Now the man had launched into an adventure that saw him sailing across the sea to a deserted island. Tomas listened with interest, and a bit of jealousy. He, after all, had been on adventures himself and yet never had he half as grand a journey as the man described. Digging up lore and tomes was how he made his living, and it amounted to little more than a lot of travel time ending in simple grave robbery. Adventuring for the robed figure seemed much more like the epic journeys that legends described and much less like the harsh reality Tomas had encountered in his own career. When Tomas had needed to head across the sea, the worst thing he'd had to deal with was dysentery. The stranger's sea journey, on the other hand, involved a battle with a sea serpent and a boarding by Mystic pirates... at the same time, no less!

As the man casually described how he fought off a giant squid using a Mystic's own body as his weapon, Tomas naturally wondered how much of his story he was making up. Ignoring the exuberance and grandiosity of the fight, the man was fairly believable, speaking with a candor and an ease that spoke of personal experience. At the same time he left out little details, though, such as the location and time that his journey's occurred. Also, though he presented the adventure's as solo affairs, he would sometimes accidentally let a "we" or an "us" slip. Griff and the carpenter didn't seem to notice, and the stories were entertainment enough that Tomas himself wouldn't have cared, except that he found the man a fascinating puzzle.

When the man finished his current tale, ending with an encounter in an underground cave with a giant lizard, Tomas tried to get one piece of the puzzle solved. "To whom should we attribute these wonderful tales of daring-do?" he asked, filling the man's glass.

"Ah... well, I suppose you could call me Tata." The man gratefully accepted the drink.

"You suppose we could call...? A funny way to introduce yourself."

"Well, it's a funny name. It's why I didn't mention it." Across the table, Griff chuckled. Tomas pushed on.

"And where do you come from?"

His voice must've sounded over eager, because Tata didn't answer at first, leaning back in his chair to regard Tomas from under his hood. When he did respond, it was in an amused tone. "I come from the Eastern continent." There was a lilt at the end of the statement, implying a definite question of 'why are you asking this?'

Tomas took a sip of beer before answering. "I've traveled quite a bit myself, you know. Been to my share of exotic locales... met my share of exotic people. One thing has always been true, I've found. Everyone's got a home, a place they can go back to, no matter how exotic they or that place is. Your home defines who you are. In a world of travelers, what else do we have but our homes?"

Tata was silent. The foam on his newly poured beer bubbled to the top of the glass and fizzed over. He made no move to wipe it away. Tomas continued, knowing he was getting somewhere, though he didn't know quite where.

"A person who can't go home is a sad person indeed," he said.

Tata seemed about to respond, but the carpenter broke in with a heavily slurred voice: "I haven't been able to go home for years! Not without a beating from my wife!"

With a bout of laughter, the moment passed. Suddenly the waitress arrived with a long ago ordered platter of pork, surrounded with sliced baked vegetables. The steaming roast was placed in the center of the table, where it exuded a mouth watering smell of rosemary and basil. For a few minutes no one said anything, instead busying themselves with chopping away slices of meat with their daggers and chewing on them. The meat was soft and delicious and tasted of honey.

Griff was the first to speak again, through a mouthful of pig: "I don't know where all this talk of home came from. It's true, I suppose. There's a lot of lost people out there. But that's why we have Choras- city of the lost!"

Tata nodded. "Home doesn't always define who you are," he said with a look at Tomas. He popped a roasted beet in his mouth, and chewed loudly.

Tomas persisted: "It defines a history, though, and a place to go back to. Come, I must know where a man with such good stories gets his stock."

Tata had found his cool, though, and wouldn't let his guard down again. "Who said anything about going back? Home is anywhere with a warm bed and good food," he said with a sly laugh. He turned to Griff and raised his drink. "I drink to your health, sir. To all your health!" he cried out to the inn at large. "You may be thieves, but you at least have the good food covered."

Whether because of the ale or an underestimation of his audience, the statement was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. The talk died at the tables nearest them, and Griff stopped halfway to cutting himself another piece of pork. The look on his face was not pleasant.

"What were you saying, boyo?" Griff asked, in a deadly tone.

Tomas tensed. Seconds ago the two had been preparing to drink each other's health. Now, though Tata non-chalantly downed his ale, Griff's tankard remained on the table, one hand clutching it with white knuckles. His other hand clutched his dagger, still dripping with the blood of the meat. Tata finished his drink and belched.

"I'm raising my glass to this den of thieves. You may be miserable bastards when it comes to an honest living, but you've done well for yourselves. I wouldn't mind staying here again."

"For someone who's been around the world so many times," Griff said in a low voice. "You have yet to learn proper manners."

Tomas had seen it a hundred times in bars around the world. This was the moment before blood was shed. Griff would strike any second now. Tata's dagger lay next to his plate and his other weapons, if he had any, were concealed under his cloak. There was no way he could draw before Griff's dagger would be sunk in his chest. Tomas realized he was clutching his own dagger under the table. He could reach Griff, could definitely beat him... but then, the whole inn wanted a piece of Tata now. Everyone except the carpenter (still peacefully asleep) and Tomas himself, who for some reason thought of the man as a friend. Maybe because he was a fellow traveler. Maybe because he hadn't figured him out yet. In any case, Tomas couldn't take them all on. The best he could do would be to disarm Griff and try to force Tata out of the inn, blaming the incident on his drunkenness. It was a cold night. With any luck, no one would care enough to leave the warmth of the fire.

These thoughts crossed through his mind in the space of a breath. Tomas prepared to make his move. Then he saw Griff's face and stopped. The colour had drained from the pickpocket, who had turned a ghastly white. The dagger in his hand shook slightly. He was deathly afraid! Tata sat across the table, doing nothing, having made no move, and Griff was afraid of him! He wasn't going to strike. Instead, the thief looked away, admitting defeat. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Ah, the carpenter's asleep," Griff said finally, bumping the burly man with his elbow, eliciting a loud snore.

More uncomfortable silence. "My thanks for the evening's companionship," Tata said. He pushed back his chair and rose, leaving a few silvers on the table for the drink and food.

Tomas noticed several unsavory types watching Tata as he headed for the door. He downed the rest of his ale and pounded the empty tankard on the table. "I'll go with you," he said.

Tata seemed about to protest, then shrugged and headed for the door. Tomas stole one more glance at the room as they left. Griff was still sitting, stock still and pale as if he'd seen the ghost of his mother. The rest of the room was all narrow eyes and concealed weapons.

The cold air hit Tomas in the face, a slap from mother nature. Combined with the sudden adrenaline rush in the inn, it served to sober him immediately. Tata hadn't waited for him, and was already a good ways down the well paved road, headed for the north. Tomas ran to catch up with him.

"Your timing is a fair bit better than your tongue, good sir," Tomas said. "I was truly sweating back there. Had you stayed a minute longer, that crowd would've torn you to pieces."

"Is that why you think I left?" Tata glanced back at him. Now that they were both standing close, Tomas could see he was tall and either extremely well built, or wearing a lot of clothes under the robe.

"Well, I assumed that it was, yes."

"No. I was full. And tired of drinking."

"What? By my ancestors! You were close to being bled, back there! Had you not left, a real fight would've broken out!"

"Never. They would've just given me nasty looks. Maybe the waitress would've spit in my ale. But they never attack," Tata said, and there was a sadness in his voice Tomas didn't understand. "They haven't attacked for years. Not when I fell off my horse in Truce... not when I taunted a bunch of low-lifes now. It's like all the real bad guys are gone, you know?"

"Do you mean to say you tried to start a fight in there?"

Tata shrugged. "It's your fault, you know, getting me all riled up with your incessant questions. I've never heard someone care so much about someone's home."

"And I've never seen someone be so evasive to the matter."

"Then you haven't traveled enough. Not all of us have a happy home life." Tomas wasn't going to pursue the matter any further. The mystery surrounding the stranger was no longer as inviting as it had been inside the warmth of the inn. Tata kept speaking, though, his voice getting more and more bitter. "It might seem nice on the outside... beautiful wife, more money and power than you know what to do with... but what good is a wife who won't speak to you? What good is money when you have everything? What use is power without the freedom to use it?"

"I think you're not quite looking at things right, eh? I mean, what man wouldn't want all those things? It would be a fool who couldn't be happy with that kind of life. I don't know where you come from, but if you have too much money, feel free to send some my way! I'll gladly spend it for you! And I'll tell you, I could do with a few less words from my wife, especially after I've been out drinking!"

Tata stopped, and looked back at Tomas with a prolonged stare, as if seeing him for the first time. "And what is this? Your philosophy on life?"

"It's called optimism," Tomas said. "For a man who can tell such enthusiastic stories at the tavern, you sure get emotional fast. Can't handle your drink? Or you just like dwelling on things?"

Tata laughed, and they continued walking. "I like the past. It's easy to be enthusiastic about it."

"Yeah, but the past is old news. You need to start living in the future!"

"Don't talk to me of the future!"

Tata spun around, in a crouched position with his hands clenched. The sudden vehemence in his voice was shocking. For a moment, Tomas thought the man was going to attack him, and he felt an ounce of the fear that had gripped Griff. Tomas wasn't the greatest of fighters, having only experience enough to know his way out of a brawl or a mugging. If this man attacked him, he could sense it would be something different... it would be a fight to the death. He remembered that Tata had been willing, desiring even, to start a fight with an inn full of ruffians. Despite the cold night, Tomas began to sweat. Why had he chosen to follow this man? Certainly the man didn't need a companion to keep him safe.

Tata's anger disappeared as quickly as it had come, however. After a moment, he relaxed and straightened. "The future... we have no future..." he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just remembering something someone said to me once." They started walking again. "You were right, you know, in the inn. A person who can't go home is a sad person indeed. Some of us, though... we can go home any time we want. We just don't want to. For some of us, home is a prison. A prison without a future."

"Ah, you're just drunk," Tomas said, and regretted it immediately. He was trying to lighten the mood, but what if the man took offense? What if the violence he had shown a moment ago returned? But Tata said nothing, and they continued in silence.

Within a few minutes, they had reached the northern gates of Choras. Tomas stopped, expecting Tata to turn around, but the man kept walking.

"Hey," Tomas called out. "They don't open the gates for anyone at night. You can go out, but you can't come back in."

"Then I suppose I won't be spending the night in Choras."

"But there's nothing out there except for woods, and... well, places people don't like to go."

"Those are often the most interesting places."

Tomas didn't say anything else. He watched the man leave through the gates, and he watched the guards bar them behind him. He shuddered. Some mysteries were better left alone. He turned for home. He never saw or heard of the stranger again.

Meanwhile, Tata made his way through the northern woods with the confidence of someone who had been there before. Midnight found him at the entrance to the squat sprawl of a mansion, long abandoned. Tata paused on the steps leading to the ruins. A wind blew through the nearby trees, turning into a howl as it reached the open doors of the mansion, filling its emptiness with the sound. Tata smiled and went inside.

The interior was dark and gloomy except for a single bright shaft of moonlight that fell through a skylight in the roof, nearly sixty feet above. In the light could be seen signs of curiously modern repair, such as new tiling or a new support pillar. Tata went up to one such pillar and ran his fingers over it, as if feeling something familiar.

A noise in the darkness made him turn around. Something had creaked above him. His eyes searched the gloom. Here in the main entrance hall, many walkways and balconies accessed through hidden stairways and ruined doors, criss-crossed in the air. On one of these, just out of the beam of light, crouched a shape. In the dark, it was indistinct, but it had roughly the proportions of a man.

Tata strode forward and addressed the shape: "Are you the one who summoned me?"

After getting no reply, he called out again. "I've come a long way, too long to parley with ghosts and spirits. If you be not man, then begone! Otherwise, make yourself known!"

This time a voice, surprising in its normality, answered. "You're the King of Guardia?"

"Yes."

"You have proof of this?"

Tata pulled his robes over his head and discarded them in a heap on the ground. In the moonlight now stood Crono, with his unmistakable red mane of hair. He wore not the golden armour he had donned for Truce, but rather a simple blue tunic and beige traveling pants. At his side hung a pair of swords, both katanas. Neither was particularly ornate, but both were formidable weapons. The shorter blade was called Swallow, and like the bird it was named for, was an easy to wield weapon good for quick strikes. The longer blade was the Rainbow, made by Melchior out of a fragment of the mystical Rainbow Shell and forged using the power of the legendary Sunstone. It could cut through stone and iron and would never rust. It's power came at a price, though. Only someone of formidable will could wield the blade. If the user's will wavered, or was not strong enough, the blade would shatter.

Crono now drew the blade and held it in the moonlight. In the light, the blade glittered and shimmered with multiple colours. The light reflected off of it in a million prisms that lit up the corners of the ruined hall.

"This is the Rainbow. There is only one blade like it in all the world, and only the King himself wields it."

The man on the walkway, now partially illuminated by the blade's light, rose from a crouch. Crono could still barely see him, but he seemed young. Young and fit. One arm was curiously larger and longer than the other, though Crono couldn't get a good enough look at it to see why. He also thought he could make out the outline of a sheathed blade at the man's side.

"Yes... I know the blade well," the man said. "So, Crono... are you prepared to test your blade?"

Crono smiled. "I could ask for nothing more."

In the next instant, the man had leapt from the balcony towards him.


	10. Part ix

Crono watched the man fall through the shaft of moonlight. He caught a glimpse of grey clothing and a clashing green scarf underneath a face that would've looked effeminate if not for the scowl it wore and the untidy mop of reddish blonde hair that hung over one eye. Steel flashed in the moonlight. The man had drawn his sword and was bringing it to bear on Crono's head, with all the weight of his fall behind it. Crono could've dodged. As he drew Rainbow he knew he should've dodged. As it was, he was lucky. His opponent's sword caught on Rainbow's edge during the draw and shattered just low enough on the blade so that Crono wasn't sliced in the following downswing.

Pieces of metallic shard exploded into his upper body and face, causing Crono to stumble back, his eyes closed for fear of being blinded by one of the shards. Again, he was lucky. As he stumbled back, his opponent thrust forward with the broken sword and missed stabbing him by mere inches. Then the man leapt back, apparently expecting Crono to counter-attack. Crono obliged, but he could tell the movement was slow, too slow. His attacker was well out of harm's way by the time his swing came, and Rainbow cut only moonlight and open air.

For a brief moment they stopped to regard each other, and Crono caught sight of the man's right arm. It was muscular and shaped like a real arm, but too long. It was some kind of implant or armour... Crono couldn't tell which. Despite seeming to made of some kind of metal, light didn't seem capable of reflecting off its black surface. At it's end Crono saw four fingers, curled into an approximation of a fist.

Crono had no more time to regard the strange device, for the man moved his left arm and a knife shot towards Crono's face. This time, he dodged. He heard a distant clink behind him as the knife struck some wall, then the stranger was on him, clutching a long curved dagger. Though Crono wielded a longer blade, the man had ducked under his defenses and was stabbing at him with the sharp dagger. Crono tried to back away, but found himself pinned against an old pillar. With only a moment left till the blade struck his chest, Crono dropped his left hand from his sword and grabbed the dagger's blade. He winced as the metal cut into his palm, but he didn't release his grip. Now it had become a battle of strength, with the favour going towards the stranger. Crono was strong, but his attacker had him pinned against the pillar, and with the man's body in the way, Crono couldn't use the sword in his right hand for anything. It was only a matter of time before Crono's left hand gave out against the cruel metal that bit into it. Then all would be lost. It had been stupid of him to come here. He was out of practice, and this was no Trucian brat. This man had experience or training... maybe both.

All at once, Crono thought of Nadia. Though his body was locked in a bitter struggle with the stranger, his mind took him back to the afternoon he'd ridden into Guardia castle with Captain Sariah at his side, a triumphant return from Truce. He hadn't publicized his departure, so he hadn't expected much grandiosity awaiting him on his return. He felt inclined to be satisfied when a single servant came running across the inner courtyard of the castle to take his horse, though the servant seemed more timid than usual, and only stammered something about a good morning before practically running off to the stables. Crono thought it odd until he and Sariah walked into the main reception hall of the castle.

There, he found Nadia waiting for him, sitting stiffly in her throne behind the banquet table, still set from the morning's repast. Her blue eyes gazed icily at Crono, still mud splattered and dusty from the road. Crono made her a mocking half how. Sariah said nothing, but merely looked appropriately embarrassed.

"We missed you at the council this morning," Nadia said.

"I was busy with other matters of State." Crono rose from his bow with a lopsided smile.

"And pray tell, what matters were those, that involved a contingency of the guard?"

"Rebellion, my love. Truce shouldn't be a problem any more."

"What?" Nadia's voice was an enraged whisper.

Crono ignored her venom and instead sat at the other end of the table, reaching for a platter of smoked chicken, which he tore at with his fingers, wiping the grease on the table cloth. Nadia turned to Sariah.

"Explain the situation, captain."

Sariah cleared his throat and kneeled. "Truce has been made a military state, by order of his majesty, my Queen."

Nadia's face turned whiter than usual. She seemed about to say more, but then closed her eyes and simply sat. When she spoke again, her voice was calm.

"Then I must adhere to the will of my husband, and trust that he knows best." She smiled at Sariah. "You are dismissed, captain."

With an audible sigh, the captain retreated from the chamber. When the doors were closed and Nadia was sure the two of them were alone, she looked back at Crono. She hadn't been about to press the matter in front of the captain; to openly show a dissent between the Queen and the King would be to show a weakness the changing kingdom couldn't afford to be aware of.

Crono was smirking over a tall goblet of wine. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to slap the smile from his face or hold him so close to her that she didn't have to see it.

"My love, what have you done?" she said.

Now it was Crono's turn to scowl. "Stop with the dramatics, Nadia. It's nothing so grand. No-one was injured and now Truce will pay their taxes. I see no problem with the situation."

"There hasn't been a military state declared in over 700 years in the kingdom of Guardia. Our enemies have always come from outside, not from within. You're spreading dissent."

"I'm halting dissent. By the gods, Nadia, what would you have me do? Sit back while people plan rebellion under my very nose? There is a time for action."

"Yes, but there were other options, parties to be consulted."

"Like who?"

"Like me, for one, dammit!"

Nadia's voice was more hurt than angry. The sound of it tore at Crono's heart.

"Crono... what's happened? Is there something wrong? Why would you run off like that, without even telling me?"

The wound in Crono's heart turned from sorrow to anger.

"Without telling you? Who do you think you are? My mother? My master?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it, though? What do I do in this kingdom except listen to the complaints of farmers and taxpayers and take your advice on how to fix it all."

"Crono, love..."

"Nadia... am I not King?"

"You are."

"Then I need no-one to second guess my decisions. Truce is under military control, and it is good that it is, because I have decried it is necessary. You may be better equipped to handle the squabbling of peasants in council, but when it comes to military matters, I am the authority. You are dismissed."

The words hung in the air, while the couple, King and Queen, regarded each other as if trying to see into one another's hearts. Then, slowly, Nadia rose from her chair and left the room. Crono didn't watch her go, but continued to eat noisily. When he heard the door to the chamber close, though, his appetite left him, and an extreme weariness set in. Though he owned an entire kingdom, for the first time in his life, he felt completely homeless.

With a sudden surge of pain, Crono was back in the ruins, feeling the warmth of his life's blood as it flowed freely through his fingers out of the wound the man's dagger had made. Even so, the blade did not advance, and despite his precarious position, he smiled. He might be out of practice, but he was still strong. Strong enough to resist death, no matter how badly it wanted him.

He had forgotten about the black arm, however. Like a snake it seemed to flow, rather than lift, towards his head. At the last minute, and purely by instinct, Crono ducked. Above him the four fingers, which he now noticed ended in sharp claws, tore a chunk out of the pillar where his head had been. The attack had missed, but Crono had sacrificed what little footing he had. His grip loosened on the dagger and his opponent drove it forward, slicing his palm open in a spray of blood.

At that moment, something deep inside Crono awoke. Power surged through him, power he hadn't felt in ages. His skin crackled with energy, and his animal fear and despair at facing death turned to frustration and anger. The blood coming from his wounded palm began to boil. A sudden bolt of electricity ran down his arm and traveled through the metal dagger to its wielder. The man arched his back and screamed as his flesh began to melt to the simplistic copper hilt of the knife. The surge didn't last long enough to incapacitate the man, however. Crono didn't have the same control over his powers as he used to... indeed, he hadn't used them in five years. Even so, the man had been nearly maimed, and the tables had turned. While the cut on his palm ran deep, Crono's sword work wouldn't be affected by the wound. His opponent, on the other hand, now had a nearly useless left arm. While it might heal given a few days care, it would no longer help him in this battle.

Crono didn't waste any time. Despite the man's injury, he still had that abominable black arm (Crono could only assume it was made of hardened steel, though the logistics of its attachment and use escaped him), and the man was fast. Crono wanted to press his advantage while he could, and win the battle before fate saw fit to give victory to the younger man. Taking Rainbow in both his hands he sprinted the distance between them and cut sideways towards the man's chest, putting his whole body into the blow.

Crono's muscles were braced for the impact the sword would make against armour (or possibly bone). Instead he felt the uncomfortable sensation of preparing to strike something hard, but instead hitting nothing; a shock of nerves traveling up his arm as the muscles relaxed suddenly. The man had moved away from the blow quickly, and had retreated into the shadows. Before Crono could locate him, he heard a sound behind him and, a second latter, a searing pain behind his shoulders. He whipped around just in time to see the man's shape retreating again. Crono didn't have to feel his back to know he was bleeding, and heavily. Rather than distract him, though, the pain gave him focus. He realized he was an easy target in the moonlight and darted into the shadows himself to buy some time, hoping that seeing in the dark wasn't among the stranger's impressive array of abilities.

Apparently it wasn't, because there was a reprieve in the other's attack. Crono listened and looked hard in the gloom for his adversary, but nothing gave him away. It was as if he'd been fighting a ghost. Meanwhile, Crono's own heavy breathing sounded like thunder to his ears, and though he fought to control it, the more he struggled, the louder the gasps seemed to get until he was sure that his opponent was following the sound in the darkness, and would spring upon him any moment.

The stranger fought with the techniques of an assassin. He had no care for his weapons, destroying his sword on his first attack. If he could sacrifice a weapon in order to gain better position, he would do it. Which probably meant he had a lot of them. He liked to get in close, where he could fight with quick strikes, and he always darted away before retaliation. Then there was his arm, which was a weapon in itself with its sharpened claws and long reach. More dangerous, however, than all his weapons and techniques was his speed. He might've as well been a child with a table knife: if Crono couldn't land a hit on him, he had no chance of winning.

At the same time, he was sure that if he could just get that one hit, he would win. Strength had been one of the abilities he had retained in his five years since saving the future. Five years. The sheer length of time was overwhelming to him. He had done nothing but sit in a chair and enjoy being prince for most of those years. Now as King, he realized just how hard that chair was, and was shocked at how hard it had become to rise from it. His body had suffered. He had no longer the spryness of youth. Even his magical powers had diminished. He wished he could unleash another bolt to light the darkness and roast his opponent, but whatever emotion had awakened his powers had retreated back into his heart, beyond his reach. Even the thought that he might die here, in these lonely ruins, could not summon them.

Here in the ruins was someone who wanted him dead with a surprising fervor. Crono couldn't best him in a match of agility. Crono couldn't even find him. Outside of the single beam of moonlight, the ruins were utterly, oppressively, dark. Crono held up a hand in front of his face. He couldn't see it. Suddenly the sweat on his body turned cold. He was bleeding, wounded in the dark, and his opponent was looking for him. He had to get out! He had to get back to the light! If he did that, though, he would be found immediately, and before he could strike back, his opponent would have retreated. Crono felt sick with frustration. His opponent would keep darting in like that until the final blow. Meanwhile, Crono was bleeding heavily, and becoming colder by the second.

Crono had never been one to give up. But then, he'd never been alone, either. He'd always had a friend at his side. Until now, he'd never thought he'd needed them. And yet, now more than ever, he didn't want them. He wanted to prove he could succeed without help.

He closed his eyes, and wondered what death would be like. He wondered who would mourn him back in Guardia. Certainly there would be some kind of regal procession. He was, after all, King. Would Nadia shed tears? Would Lucca find the time between experiments and raising children to attend? Would his orders in Truce be carried out, or would they be forgotten? He thought of his mother. She would mourn. He'd talked to her before he left. In fact, she and Lucca were the only ones who knew he'd gone to Choras, though he hadn't told his mother exactly why he was going. He'd mentioned an outing, nothing more. He'd only told her so that she would stop Nadia from becoming too worried, or sending a party after him.

His mother, who lived in luxury at the castle, had smiled at him when he declared his intentions. Then she started in on the questions. She'd been worried about him, had he been taking care of himself? Were he and Nadia being good to each other? Would he like some tea?

"Don't worry about me, mother. I sometimes worry about you, though."

He took a good look at his mother. At fifty four, he still thought of her as young. Her chestnut hair showed only the faintest signs of turning grey, and the sun in the many windowed room where she sat made her skin look smooth as a twenty year old's. He liked to think of her as still in her twenties... she was the only family he'd ever had, never knowing his father, and the thought that one day she wouldn't be in his life disturbed him.

"I should be the least of your worries," his mother said, sipping her tea.

"Still, I can't help but worry once in a while."

"Well, I'm glad to know I'm worth a thought now and then."

"You know I'd give you anything you desired. Are you happy here in the castle?"

"I've got everything I need."

"But do you have everything you want?"

His mother put down her tea and laid a hand on Crono's knee. He was surprised at how light it was. Looking at it, he noticed the many wrinkles lining the hand. This close, there was no denying his mother was reaching the twilight of her years.

"Now what's really bothering you?" she asked.

Crono sighed. Getting in touch with his feelings was not a favourite past time of his.

"I suppose it's these winter months," he said, lamely. "I always did get a bit down at the year's end."

His mother took away her hand and regarded him slyly. "Your citizens love you," she said. "The Crono Special is all the rage at the restaurants! And Crono is a very popular name for children this year."

Crono laughed for the sheer joy of having someone else name his problem and tell him it was alright. "You know my heart, as usual."

"I also know that an outing every once in a while does anyone good, whether they be boys or kings. Have fun, dear."

That was the other reason he'd told her, because he knew she would encourage him.

He wasn't sure why he'd told Lucca.

"Don't you have business to attend to here, Crono?"

Crono sighed. He was sitting on a chair amid a pile of circuitry and blueprints in Lucca's packed main room. His chair rose from the debris like some holy perch. Occasionally he caught sight of a child running around in the room with the tenacity of a crow. They would occasionally spot something of interest in the junk and swoop down to pick it up, either running it off to some back room or carrying it excitedly over to Lucca, who always seemed to find a use for it.

He'd come there on his way to the ferry. He was already dressed in the black hooded robe he would wear to Choras. Under the robes, Rainbow and Swallow rested against his side, comforting him and adding to his resolve.

"I didn't come to be berated for my decision, Lucca."

"Then why did you come?"

Crono paused and thought about it, but he couldn't come up with a good answer. Talking to Lucca was always tiring. She had a knack for asking tough questions.

"I suppose I thought someone should know where I'm going," he said finally.

"Didn't you say you told your mother?"

"Dammit, Lucca, I didn't tell her everything. And don't you go mentioning it to her... or to Nadia either. They'd just worry."

"I don't usually have occasion to go to the castle."

"Ah, but Nadia might call on you, see if I've come this way."

"And you want me to lie in that case?"

"I don't know Lucca, you're the genius, figure it out."

"Well, let's look at the facts, then. You receive a message from someone you've never heard of, which is understandable since he gives you no name, and he challenged you to a duel. Rather than throw it away and forget about it, as most people would be wont to do, you set up an elaborate foil to fool your wife... who cares greatly about you, I might add... and your mother, and plan on going in secret to have it out with him."

"Ah, c'mon, it sounds crazy when you say it that way."

"I'm thinking that's because it is crazy."

"You just don't want me to go anywhere."

I'm wondering if maybe you don't want to go. And I wonder if that's why you came here."

"Lucca, I could care less about what someone names their child, or having dinners titled after me. I miss adventure, Lucca. I miss the thrill of a good fight."

"This isn't a good fight, Crono. It's a stranger offering to fight you at night. It doesn't sound suspicious? It doesn't sound like they want to kill you?"

"Maybe I don't want to go. Maybe I'm afraid... a little bit. But that proves that I have to go! That proves that this is what I need!"

"Now that doesn't make any sense."

"I'm tired of sitting in a castle, Lucca! I'm tired of making orders I don't understand, and controlling the lives of people I don't know! I just want to control my own life, instead of having everyone else do it for me. Everyone else always tells me what to do... Nadia always tells me what to do."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"If she knew, she'd just try to keep me at the castle. She wouldn't let me go."

"Have you ever thought that she just doesn't want to see you hurt?"

In the ruins, Crono's thoughts stopped with the voice of Lucca echoing in his head. He blacked out. It was a short reprieve. Though his breathing slowed momentarily, a few seconds later, his opponent heard him cough and heard a slight splatter as if of blood hitting the stone ground.

From the shadows of the ruins, the man stood motionless. Contrary to Crono's fears, he couldn't see in the dark. He could hear Crono breathing (his sensitive ears placed the distance at thirty feet), but he didn't dare to approach the King. He didn't have to. The wound he'd struck Crono was deep, if not fatal. At this point, Crono couldn't afford to play the waiting game. He'd have to come looking for his opponent, and that was when the stranger would strike. In the meantime he would wait.

He heard a grunt and shuffling as his prey moved in the darkness. Then metal scraped against stone. Crono had his sword drawn. The man tensed, listening to hear if the King was moving closer to him. He wasn't. He was headed for the middle of the room. This momentarily struck the man as odd, as this would bring Crono into the moonlight, where he would be vulnerable. As the King stumbled into view, he put the thought aside. Crono was barely standing. One hand limply held his beautifully crafted sword. The other was at his neck. Red blood seeped through the fingers and shone in the cold moonlight. The man relaxed. His attack had been more damaging than he'd thought. He debated what best to do with this turn of events.

Crono's sudden release of electricity had not only been surprising, it had been debilitating. He doubted his left arm would ever function as it used to. His right arm, the device he'd christened the Strong Arm, only had four claws, and wasn't really suited to gripping weapons. But the claws were sharp, sharp enough to tear through skin.

Crono fell to one knee suddenly and his head lolled back, the white skin of his neck exposed. Now was the chance to strike. The man rushed from the shadows, approaching from behind Crono's left side, his right arm pulled back for the killing stab.

Just as the man reached him, Crono suddenly spun around and out of the way of the attack. The hand that had held his wound darted out and grabbed him, revealing a red bandana (which had looked like blood at a distance). Crono rose swiftly, and in the same motion pulled the man off balance. As his opponent stumbled forwards, Crono raised Rainbow and aimed at his exposed back. Just as he prepared to drop the blade, the man looked behind him, and Crono saw his face. Up close he now saw he was fifteen or sixteen at the most. A thought struck him with the intensity of a light turned on suddenly in a dark room. He realized he had never killed a man before. His enemies had always been monsters. His blade hesitated for the slightest of moments, and in that pause his opponent spun around, the claws of his metallic hand slashing at Crono's face. In a panic, Crono swung wildly.

There was a dull clang and Crono felt an impact run up his arm. He closed his eyes. At first he thought he'd struck a blow to the stranger's shoulder and gotten caught in bone, as his blade's progress had halted. Looking, though, he saw that instead his blade was caught in the grip of the stranger's clawed hand. A second later he remembered that Rainbow could cut through all known metals.

He didn't give the shock of this realization any time to set in. Rather than think that his blade was being held at bay by the strength of one man's arm, he tried to think of the situation as any other where his blade had become useless. Dropping to one knee, he released the blade and drew Swallow instead, cutting straight for the man's side. This time, he thought nothing about taking the man's life. As far as he was concerned, after displaying such feats of strength and dexterity, the man was a monster. And Crono was ahead of him this time. Swallow struck true... but instead of the soft bite of flesh, he heard a dull clang.

There was a pause. Then the man stepped away from his blade.

"I suppose we're at a bit of an impasse," he said.

He offered Crono the hilt of Rainbow and smiled coldly when Crono took the blade back. In a sudden dramatic movement that made Crono drop to a fighting position, the man stepped away and pulled off his grey robes. The body underneath was well built, with muscles corded and tight. But the whole right half was made of the same material as the arm.

"I haven't really been playing fairly," the man admitted. "An injury forced me to adopt this metal as part of my own body. It's taken some getting used to, but they do say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"What's your name?" Crono simply couldn't think of anything else to ask.

"My name is Bill. It's a base, common name, I know."

"It was the name of the last ruler of Guardia."

"So it was. Though I hear Crono is a more popular title these days."

Bill reached for a ceramic bottle hung at his side in a kind of sling. He carefully lifted the bottle in his clawed hand, pulled the cork out with his teeth and spit it across the room. Using the same hand he clumsily spilled a thin liquid all over his hand and arm before tossing the bottle aside. Crono watched the ritual with curiosity.

"Poison," Bill explained. "One scratch will send you to the Otherworld. I figure we should end this in one more pass, eh?"

Crono watched the liquid dripping from the claws. "Why do you want to kill me?" he asked.

Bill shook his head, briefly shaking the long hair out of his face. He turned and walked to the edge of the moonlight, then crouched, ready to spring forward in a sprint.

"The better question is, knowing I wanted to kill you, why did you come?"

In answer, Crono raised his blade. "Alright. One more pass, then."

The ruins were still. Crono's chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. Blood pulsed down his injured back. Bill's claws dripped poison, tapping out a steady rhythm in tune to the beating of Crono's heart.

Then they moved.

It took only seconds for the two to reach each other. Crono saw Bill's face, emotionless. The claw raised to strike him. Crono gripped his sword and kept moving. The claws dropped towards his face. Crono didn't flinch. He kept running. He ran faster than he ever had. He ran until the world blurred around him and he felt once again the presence of the bard from his dream. He felt at peace, even if this should be the end.

"Be the wind," the bard said, and winked.

Then the peaceful spell was broken, and Crono's speed mixed with his rage, that someone would deign to kill him, to break his unbreakable power. It mixed, too, with joy, that he could move with the purpose and will of the elements. The warring emotions filled his whole being as he struck at his opponent.

Bill couldn't place from which direction came the attack. There seemed to be five Crono's at least, striking him from all side simultaneously. His opponent seemed to be everywhere. Desperately he sought to drive his claws into flesh, but he only struck the stone pillars around them. Meanwhile, pain stabbed through his body, pain like he hadn't felt in years.

And then it was over. Bill dropped to one knee. Just as he was thinking death wasn't so bad, he realized he could still move. He raised his head. Crono stood before him, his blade at Bill's throat. Realizing he was alive brought a terrible burning shame. He'd lost. Frustration overwhelmed him. He'd put everything he'd had into the fight, and he'd still lost. Tears pressed out of the corners of his eyes.

Crono misinterpreted them for pain. "You've felt what could've been," he said. "You've seen what will be, if you do not submit."

Bill wondered at the sound of pleasure in his voice, a pleasure of victory and of power. Crono didn't wonder at it. He simply enjoyed it.


	11. Part x

"Here, another drink this way, love."

"Oi, she don't love you, and she won't no matter how many beers you drink."

"Shut your trap, Wedge. Aye, so what were you talking about, Biggs?"

"We was talking about that new advisor to the King, we was."

"The one that comes from Choras, you know."

"Well, now, they say as he comes from Choras, Wedge, but we doesn't really know, does we? He's a right strange bugger, or so I've heard."

"Aye? What do ya mean?"

"I mean he looks funny for one, he does."

"And when have you had a chance to seen em, eh Biggs? You don't get up to the castle much, you know."

"I ain't gone, no, but Dallon had to go up to the castle last week, and he meets this feller while he's there. And he says he's never seen such a cold bloke before. Just looking at em made his skin crawl. And then there was his arm-"

"Oi, Dallon ain't worth a rat's shit. You know he beats his wife, you know?"

"Sh! Speak quietly, mate! By the Black Omen! Aye, we all know about Dallon's troubles, but it's not our place to get involved."

"Curse his mouth, but Wedge does have a point, though, Piette, he does. We all know it's him as keeping Jessica from saying anything for her brother."

"You mean her brother Samdel?"

"The others ain't worth mentioning, ain't they? Gregoire's a drunkard, doesn't say two words to nobody since he lost the house to the King's men."

"And James is disgraced, you know, seeing as he's one of them stinking King's men. The only one of the family still living in the house, and here he's betrayed his family to do it. Pig's shit."

"Aye, we all expected a bit better out of him, didn't we? I remember when he was a child, I do."

"You weren't much older yourself, then."

"Aye... and the King was living here! Well, future King, anyways."

"Times do change, they do."

"Oi, speaking of changing times, Piette, me and Biggs have been thinking... this seems like a ripe chance to be changing ourselves, our allegiances, you know?"

"I don't want to hear it. And you'd all better be careful, aye? I know the rumors about Samdel's new little band of rebels. Like as to get yourselves in trouble, I say. We saw what happened the first time. And that was just a little tax complaint. This time it'll be considered open mutiny."

"Naw, see, that's where Samdel's different from his brother. He's not making any noise, he is, just spreading the word real quiet like, amongst those who he knows can be trusted."

"It's bound to lead to trouble, that's what I think. I got a wife and child to think about. You two can afford to throw your lives away, but when you're causing trouble, try to think of me and my own, aye? Don't be bringing an army down on us."

"I don't see what more they can do, Piette mate, I don't. There's already an army here."

"There's a few soldiers, aye. And that's all I want, aye? It's not so bad yet. That fellow running things up, what's his name?"

"Ghetz, it is."

"That's right, Ghetz. He ain't such a bad bloke. Let's us get on with our business and minds his own. So don't be stirring up any trouble, right?"

"Trouble's stirring without us at the pot. We just don't want to be left behind when it comes serving time, you know?"

"I don't see what Samdel thinks he can do. What's he gonna do? Attack the soldiers and take the residence back? That'll show em for about a day, then you'll see the King down here with another army, mark my words."

"Well, our word is Samdel's brought in some outside help down Choras way, you know. Some of them types of folk. And one guy in particular, used to cage fight down there. Big bloke, very experienced, ain't he, Wedge?"

"Oi. That's what I heard. Calls himself Griico, or Gecko, or something."

"Aye? And what's this big gecko plan on doing, eh? Attacking the castle with a handful of men and a pile driver? He better be pretty big if he plans on knocking down them walls."

"I thought you said you weren't interested, mate."

"I'm not. Don't tell me."

"Our Samdel's got something in mind. Just you wait and see, Piette old chum. Things will be looking a little different around here come Solstice."

"Well, I can't say I wouldn't mind as seeing them soldiers gone. By the Black Omen, you ever feel that time's got away from you? Like, one day your body's in the future, but your mind's in the past?"

"It's called being drunk, mate."

"I got to stop hanging round you blokes. Can't think a damn thing through lest it's got tits or a mug handle. Rebellion... I'll be damned the day I see an army with you in it. If I were your commander, I'd kick your ass back to the docks."

"With the brothels, and the bars, and our friend Piette sitting and drinking and ignoring the troubles in the world, right Wedge?"

"Oi."

"Aye? Well, as long as I have a place to sit and drink, the world can't be all bad, eh? I just want one place where things are simple, and let the future pass by on the outside. I want a fire and a beer and a home to go back to."

"Well, can't say I blame you for that, I can't. Cheers, mate. To the kingdom, and may tomorrow pass us all by."


	12. Part xi

Nadia, Queen of all Guardia and the most powerful woman in the known world, was trying to dust the giant chandelier above the banquet table in the dining hall... and failing.

This night was to be the annual banquet held at the Winter's Solstice, celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of another. Tradition dictated that family should be together at such a time, so it had been customary for the castle to send it's staff away at this time of the year. Two years ago, Crono had changed this tradition slightly, and instead invited all of the servant's immediate family to the castle for the year's Solstice, "filling all the empty spaces," as he said.

What it really amounted to was one hell of a party each year.

Nadia definitely preferred it to the old method, which had left her with her father in the huge castle for the three day holiday. The two had only grown close after her marriage, so her childhood Solstices had hardly made for the best of festivities. Fortunately, they hadn't been alone: her father kept his closest retainers around and usually spent the three days of Solstice discussing matters of state and law. Also in the castle had been some of the less fortunate servants, those without families to go home to. Nadia had spent most of her time with them. One in particular, a middle aged woman named Rudra, had taken on the role of surrogate mother for Nadia, taking her with her on her daily route of cleaning throughout the castle. Together, for those three days, they had filled a particular void in each other's life. Rudra had long ago lost her child, and Nadia had long ago lost her mother.

Now Nadia found the process of cleaning, however bad she was at it, to be soothing. Especially at this time of year, she felt she needed something to close old wounds. Sometimes she could still feel the pain in her belly from the day she'd miscarried, this time three years ago. She held on to that pain, less afraid of the nightmares it brought than she was that one day she might feel nothing at all, forget that she'd ever been with child.

"Do you require aid, my lady?"

The voice startled her and she dropped the duster with a clatter. Turning, she found Bill standing in the entrance to the banquet hall, watching her with an almost prideful glare that she didn't understand. She didn't like him, or the way he looked at her, and his monotone voice disgusted her. Her eyes drifted, as they always did, to his arm. Though he wore the usual clothes of a councilor, no sleeve would fit over the monstrous device that formed his right arm. So he wore the arm sleeveless. It was a nasty contrast, with the colourful councilor's sleeve on one arm and the jet black metal on the other.

"I'm fine," Nadia said, forcing her eyes away from the spectacle and bending over to pick up her duster.

She didn't know what else to say. She wanted to dismiss him, dismiss him from the room, from the very castle, but something always kept her from doing so. She wasn't quite sure what. Maybe it was just the fact that he was more her husband's retainer than her own.

When Crono had returned to the castle, she had been livid. Though he'd been gone without explanation for three days, he wouldn't tell her where or why he'd gone. Nor would he explain the man he'd brought back with him, the sullen man with the unique arm and a common name, the name of her father. Crono's mood had been so ecstatic, so lively in fact, that her anger had eventually diminished. Once she'd seen that he wasn't hurt and she realized that his short absence hadn't affected the kingdom, her anger had subsided and life had returned mostly to normal around the castle.

Crono hadn't told her why he'd brought Bill back with him, aside from mentioning that he had no family and that he wanted him to live at the castle. Nadia could see Bill made her husband happy, though she didn't understand how at first.

There was something pathetic about Bill. It was many things, really. The way his strawberry blonde hair, though a beautiful color, hung untidily in front of his face with a greasy quality to it, as if it were never washed. The full lips that never smiled and the shockingly blue eyes that seemed doomed to loneliness. The shape of his body, thin as a stick, yet heavily, almost grotesquely, muscled. The huge arm and the black armour that seemed built into his very flesh, powerful weapons but surely a burden to carry. It was as if everything good about him had some flaw to cancel it out, something that would always keep others from accepting him. But Nadia couldn't bring herself to pity the man. Instead, her hair stood on end whenever he came into the room. He reeked of blood and death.

Crono didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't mind. The two of them would hole up in the castle towers or take walks through the gardens, spending hours together. Nadia couldn't fathom what they were doing together, as neither Bill nor her husband were much for talking. She did catch them sparring once, and the look on Crono's face as he toweled his face off afterwards was one of the happiest she'd seen on him since he'd become King. After a while she realized that Crono was simply glad to have a friend.

The realization shocked her. Crono had never had many friends outside of Lucca and Nadia. Lucca had grown distant from the world in recent years, and could hardly spare the time to be a friend to anyone. Nadia, though, had always thought she still counted as her husband's friend. Seeing Bill able to make him happy without any effort, when she had to try so hard to bring a smile to his face these days, was painful. It forced her to see that though they still shared a crown and a bed, her and Crono's relationship had changed. He was closer, in some ways, to this stranger he'd brought back from Choras than he was to her.

Seeing her husband with Bill every day caused her a mixture of emotions, none of them pleasant. She couldn't tell whether she was jealous or simply depressed. She reminded herself every day that as long as Crono was happy, she should be.

But the reminder rang hollow.

Now, as Bill continued to stand in the room and watch her as she went back to her dusting attempt, she was feeling an uncontrollable hatred for the man. How dare he come into her life and steal her husband away from her? And simply because he was willing to indulge Crono's desire for combat. While Crono was busy sparring with his new friend, Nadia was ofttimes the one making sure the Nation ran smoothly.

Nadia climbed up on a chair to better reach the chandelier. In her nervous state, though, she put her weight on the chair too quickly and it tipped over. She prepared herself for a nasty fall into the sharp candleholders that lined the table... but the impact never came. Instead she fell into an open embrace.

Strong arms were wrapped around her. She was pressed against a broad chest, and she smelt the smell of a warrior, the smell of horse and barracks. Without knowing quite why, she relaxed into the embrace. Then, as quickly as he had caught her, the man pushed her away and she saw it was Ghetz, Sariah's son, standing awkwardly before her in something like a casual rigidity. He made a hurried bow.

"I'm sorry, your majesty, I didn't mean to seem familiar. I was sent to summon you and... well... I was only trying to break your fall."

"Which you did rather well, I must say, captain."

The two stood awkwardly for a moment. Ghetz seemed frozen in his pose. Nadia realized that, as his Queen, he couldn't leave without her permission. She tried to act like she normally did, but she couldn't recall how that was. Ghetz had unexpectedly caught her in more ways than one... she had been in a vulnerable position, indulging her anger and frustration. Finally the silence stretched long enough that she said the first thing that came to her mind.

"So, you were sent to summon me?"

"Ah yes, by your husband... by Crono... by the King, I mean."

"Ah."

She didn't move. Obeying a summons from Crono somehow seemed wrong at the moment, as if it gave him undue power over her. So she spoke again.

"How does your promotion to captain suit you? Are you finding it difficult to lead other men?"

It sounded a ridiculously stiff inquiry to her ears, but to Ghetz she was a Queen, and a certain degree of stiffness was to be expected. He answered as honestly as he could without being informal.

"It's not a position I enjoy being in, if I were to be frank. But that makes me want to perform all the better for my King."

"Then things are well in Truce?"

"They are."

"You sound hesitant."

"Nothing escapes my lady." He gave her a quick grin then replaced it with a more properly stoic face. "I had to leave James in charge, and he is young for such a burden. He has family there, though, so hopefully the holidays will be pleasant for him. It was thoughtful of the King to recall me. It is good to be with my father."

There was a skepticism in his voice that spoke of further trouble brewing in the coastal town, but he seemed reluctant to say more and Nadia didn't feel like pursuing it at the moment. She noted it, however, and reminded herself to ask Crono about it later.

She decided the conversation had lasted as long as it could without becoming awkward again, and politely shooed Ghetz out of the room. Watching him go, she remembered again the warmth of his unexpected embrace and the feeling of comfort she'd gotten from letting herself be supported by someone else; having to make no decisions or spend any effort, she'd just let herself fall. And she could choose worse arms to fall into.

She giggled mischievously, then brushed the thought away. Suddenly she remembered Bill, and felt a sudden anxiety that somehow he was reading her mind. When she turned to where he'd been standing, however, there was no-one there.


	13. Part xii

A bow against a cello turned out a melody that rang in chorus with the flowing of the violins. Bells and a lone trumpet played out a jaunty waltz. The first night of the Solstice was upon Guardia, and the festivities had begun with the annual ball.

The King and Queen danced alone in the center of the hall. Pressed against Crono, watched by dozens of people, Nadia wanted to believe that she and her husband were sharing a special moment. When they danced last year, he had repeated over and over that he loved her and had whispered promises in her ear that he later lived up to in her bedroom. Now Crono simply went through the motions of the waltz without any expression on his face and no words on his lips.

As the dance progressed, more and more people began to join the waltz, until the dance floor was crowded and her and Crono were just one of many pairs. As soon as the dance was over, Crono left her without so much as a kiss, making his way back to his throne where he immediately engaged himself in conversation with Bill, who had donned a robe for the occasion to cover his deformity.

She turned away from the sight of them and made her escape to the far end of the ballroom, where a large table was laden with refreshments. She filled a glass with wine and sipped at it, feeling uncomfortable in her own home. It didn't feel like she belonged here, and it no longer felt like her husband belonged to her. But what could she do? Where else did she belong. Her thoughts went briefly to the bundle of clothing hidden in her closet, but she brushed the notion away. That life was definitely behind her.

"Mind if I get in here?"

She looked up to find Ghetz smiling at her. He was dressed in a black traditional suit with a small white cape draped around his shoulders, a sign of his new rank. His black hair was tidily combed and his face was slightly flushed. She smiled weakly back.

"You've been drinking," she said.

"Well, it is the Solstice."

"Ah, in that case, pour me another drink."

"I'd be happy to, if only you'd move aside for a moment."

"You're being awfully familiar, you know. I think you've forgotten yourself, captain."

"Not at all. You're blocking the fried oysters and I simply must have one."

He said it with such quiet seriousness that she laughed. Still smiling, Ghetz grabbed a bottle of wine at random and filled her glass, then his own. Again Nadia was struck by loneliness. Her life was as separate from that of normal people as much as the wine in her glass was separate from the wine in Ghetz's glass. She could never share her problems with anyone. Crono had always been there for her before, but now...

"Dance with me, won't you Ghetz?"

The captain was taken aback. He didn't respond, just sipped his drink while watching her, as if waiting for her to explain herself. She blushed under his stare, but she also noticed his hand shake as he raised the glass to his lips.

"You are obligated to give your Queen an answer, you know."

Ghetz downed his glass and set it down, his hand reaching for the bottle to refill it.

"If my Queen orders it, I shall dance with her, gladly. But I should tell you it's somewhat out of my, ah, comfort zone."

Nadia put a comical pout on her face.

"It's because of my age, isn't it? I'm too old for you."

Now Ghetz blushed. "Not at all, my lady."

"Then, come on!"

Before he could grab his glass again, she took his arm and led him onto the dance floor in time for the next song, a spry tango. It was an impulsive move, she knew, to dance with the captain, but safe one, she figured.

The instant the song began, however, Ghetz transformed.

The tango is one of the sexiest dances known to man. It describes perfectly the foreplay between two lovers. It requires staccato, exacting, movements to be performed with such grace and fluidity that the body has to flow onto the beats, even as the feet strike them. In a good tango, it will seem that the dancers are two parts of a whole, constantly trying to flee from each other, but always being dragged back at the last moment. Every movement must end with the pair so close together that their bodies and lips almost touch... but they never should touch. Thus is the tension of the lovers created.

Nadia knew these rules by heart. The tango was one of her favorite dances. She hadn't expected Ghetz to know them as well. The minute he placed his hand above her hip in a firm yet gentle grip, she knew something amazing was about to happen.

The music began. They played with each other for the first few steps. She tested him, brushing her body against his. In response, he pushed her away almost violently, then caught her at the last moment and came slowly close to her, staring into her eyes. She stared back and saw that Ghetz not only knew the dance, he was pouring himself into it, as if it was more important than anything he'd ever done in his life.

In response, she felt her body leave her control, losing itself to the music and to Ghetz's lead. Again she felt that wonderful feeling of letting go of her worries, letting someone else show her the path. Her body moved spryly, her legs kicking in time to the beat, her body flowing around Ghetz's, but never touching him.

Energy poured out from the couple, so that slowly the other dancers moved away and all of them stopped to watch the tango. It was telling a story, a story of passion not yet realized, a passion that might never come to fruition. It was a tale that could not hide itself from anyone's eyes, it was so honest and lustful. Even Crono, who cared little for dance, abruptly ended his conversation with Bill and stopped to watch his wife dancing with another man.

As suddenly as it had begun, the tango ended and the dance stopped. Nadia fell into Ghetz as he dipped, and he ended up supporting her weight as she hung in his arms. This was the final posture of the dancers, and they had performed perfectly, never touching, never meeting, but never separating either.

Nadia felt frustration, the frustration of the emotion that had built during the dance but had not been allowed to go free. But along with the frustration came a joy so powerful at having seen that emotion that she burst out laughing.

The entire room felt her mirth, and it exploded in a cacophony of applause and excited chatter. The band struck up a quicker tune, and again everyone was dancing, inspired by the Queen and her Captain.

Meanwhile, Nadia hung in Ghetz's arms and continued to laugh, but through the crowd she felt Crono's eyes piercing her like arrows.


	14. Part xiii

For James, left in Truce to man the Mayor's residence and monitor the military occupation of the town, the Solstice was not turning out to be a good one. The other soldiers were throwing a party down at the tavern. Arch had invited him along, but he'd turned down the offer, not wanting to be seen in town, where he felt judged by everyone.

So instead he was alone in the mansion that used to belong to his family. It was a large family, with three sons and six daughters, and usually at this time of year, you couldn't go anywhere in the house without running into someone wanting to hand you a drink or tell you some snide joke. Now, James was the only one of his family allowed to set foot inside the residence, the others having been banned by the King's royal decree when Gregoire had spoken out against the taxes. Most had families of their own. Alba, Mary, Rebecca, Sarah, and Jessica were all married. Gregoire was staying with Alba (though James had heard he more likely to be found at the tavern at any given moment). Their father and little Romana were staying with Jessica and Dallon in their home. Samdel was staying with a girl he knew on the outskirts of town.

That left James to wander around the lonely mansion in a sort of daze, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He'd grown up inside these walls feeling trapped, wanting to explore more of the world than the hundred or so acres owned by the family. He'd left at fourteen to try and become a knight. The path had not been easy, but by sixteen he'd accomplished his goal and was interred as a knight in the King's guard. He'd thought he'd escaped his prison forever. Now, four years later, those walls had found a way to trap him again.

He stopped under a picture of his father that hung in the main sitting room. While sipping at his drink, he let his mind wander a few days back, when he'd gone to visit father. Jessica had always been the favourite of the James' sisters. It figured she'd end up with the saddest fate: married to an asshole like Dallon and childless all these years of their marriage, with her only pregnancy ending prematurely. The old man moving in with her wasn't a help, either. Now she had two men to wait on. Between the old man's waking up early, and Dallon's habit of coming home late (usually drunk), Jessica was up all hours. James' sister bore her misfortunes with good cheer, though. If she felt at all unsatisfied with her lot, she didn't let it show. She had greeted him with a hug at the door of her house, a large two story cottage.

"It truly gladdens my hearts to see you, brother."

"And mine to see you. You are well?"

"Yes."

"Truly?"

Jessica didn't answer. For a moment she looked away and the smile left her face. But it was back by the time she turned again, as bright as ever... and as fake, James thought.

"Come inside, father would like to see you," his sister said.

"I'm not so sure of that."

Jessica brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her face and took his hand. He allowed himself to be led inside, finding himself in a kitchen cramped by the inclusion of a round table, at which sat his elderly father, the former mayor of Truce, dressed impeccably in formal robes, as if he was going to court to treat of politics and economics. An untouched glass of wine sat in front of him. Father never drank, but he pretended to all the time.

Behind father stretched the living room, bright with the day's sun coming through the many windows. At the end of that room were stairs leading to the second story. Above them, James could hear movement and he wondered who else was in the house. Probably Dallon, who avoided him. James couldn't complain: he didn't like Dallon, and was only too glad that Jessica's acerbic drunkard of a husband was staying out of his sight.

Jessica beamed and declared she had some food for James. She went to get it, humming a popular tune. Though she never left the room, the moment father caught his eyes, James felt alone. He'd never known his mother. The woman ad died during his childbirth, and his father had never taking a liking to him, as if he couldn't separate the two events in his mind. Finally, James spoke to break the tension:

"Hello, father. I hope the day finds you well."

Though the words were right, there was an emptiness behind them James couldn't disguise. His father gave him a cursory smile, than looked towards his wine again.

"I see you've come down from the hill. How is the old house? You're keeping it well?"

The question seemed innocent, but there was an insinuation behind it that made James' face turned red. Jessica's humming went up a pitch and twittered nervously. For her sake, James kept his composure.

"The house is well. I spend a lot of time in the gardens. I've tried to keep them proper."

"For what purpose? So that the King's men can trample the flowers after the Solstice? So that you can impress whores before befouling the house with their presence?"

James couldn't help but laugh.

"I assure you, I've not brought any whores home."

"Home for you maybe. Just like you always wanted it."

"I don't understand what you mean, father."

"Hmph."

A loud slam on the table announced Jessica's return with a bowl of sauce and meat balls made from lamb, as well as a plate of bread to sop up the sauce with.

"Please, sit," Jessica said to James, indicating a chair across from their father. James took the seat in silence and focused on his meal, though he could hardly taste it. All he could feel was a throbbing in his head. Of course he understood what his father was implying. After all, he had joined the military against his wishes, and now he was part of the force occupying his former title. It was an awkward situation, to be sure.

"Ah, I see my brother and father are enjoying each other's company."

James looked up to see Samdel standing in the entrance to the living room with his hands on his hips and a smart-assed grin spread across his face. Adopted into the family, Samdel didn't share James' good looks, but he had a natural confidence in all of his actions that made him highly charismatic. Holding onto his leg with one tiny hand was little Romana, barely 3 that year, but already an intelligent and beautiful child, with little of a child's usual flabbiness and un-cordination and large green eyes that stared inquisitively at everything they encountered. She had also been adopted by the family, the daughter of a local girl who couldn't afford to take care of her, and who died of sickness not long after the birth. At seeing James, she burst into smile and ran to him, and he obliged her by taking her in his lap and tussling her hair.

"And how's my little eaglet?" James said, to which Romana replied with a grin full of budding teeth.

Meanwhile, James' father beamed to see Samdel and greeted him with such honest enthusiasm that James couldn't help but feel jealous. Though they weren't even his own blood, his father's love for Samdel and Romana ran infinitely deeper than it ever had for James. He couldn't blame Romana, for she was everyone's angel, but it was harder to forgive Samdel.

"When is Ghetz coming back?" Romana asked, quite suddenly. James was taken aback for a moment, then he remembered seeing Ghetz playing with Romana and smiled. A second later, the smile was wiped from his face as he saw his father's scowl. Surely the old man blamed him for Romana's choice of playmates. Samdel's grin grew larger.

"Jessica, make yourself busy," Samdel said to his step-sister in a condescending tone. "My stomache is hungry. Feed it."

"You might bring something for your father, as well," the former mayor complained. "I see you take care of James well enough."

As Jessica scrambled off to obey and Samdel swaggered to the table, James saw another man descending the stairs. He was tall, having to bend down as he descended to avoid hitting his head on the overhang. He wasn't wearing a shirt and James could see a large tattoo over his muscled chest. The tattoo was a black circle wreathed in black fire. It rippled with his massive pectorals as he moved down the stairs. When he came into the kitchen, James saw his eyes were as black as his long hair that he wore braided in a pony-tail. The man didn't take a seat, but stood silently behind Samdel with his arms crossed. James raised an eye at Samdel and his father, but neither bothered with an introduction.

"How is the old homestead?" Samdel asked, instead.

"I've just finished discussing it with Father."

"A conversation I'm sad to have missed. Did he mention the whores?"

"He did, at that."

"Ha ha, father's never forgiven you for that, has he?"

"As well as a good many other things."

"That was your first and last time with a woman, I'll bet. Probably can't make it with one without hearing father's voice, can you? I keep telling him, James gave up women when he joined the boys at the castle. Just like you gave up drinking, eh?"

"Actually, I could do with a drink right now, I think."

"Good! I say, we'll make a man of you, yet!"

Jessica returned with food for father and Samdel at that moment. As she put down the plate in front of Samdel, he grabbed her wrist and pushed some coins into her hand.

"Run to the tavern and bring us some ale. Dallon's quaffed everything that's in the house, I'm sure. Take Romana with you."

Again Jessica obeyed with her silent smile, grabbing Romana from James (after a last hug and grin) and going to get their coats. The four men waited in silence until she was out of the house. James had a strange feeling in his gut, a sense of something unpleasant coming that made him want to leave with his sisters. Instead he sat uncomfortably until they could no longer hear Jessica's footsteps on the gravel path outside. Then Samdel grinned and hunkered down in front of his meal.

"Now it's just us boys, eh?"

Samdel ate while James waited. After inhaling a few bites of food, he looked up.

"You're in an interesting position, brother."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've been given charge of the whole town until the end of the Solstice and the return of the other captain... what's his name?"

"Ghetz."

"Right, right. Romana's little play mate. Until he gets back, the town is in your control, no?"

"No. Where are you going with this?"

"Answer your brother's question," their father growled. James shot him a dark look, but what was he to do? If he denied to answer, it would come off as petty, the behavior of a child. Anyway, what could an answer hurt him?

"Fine. No, I'm a warden. The King rules Truce... as he has always done."

"Words brother, mere words. The King isn't here, and you are."

"I only act in the King's name."

"Exactly! We wouldn't ask you to do anything else except exercise your power."

"What power I have I cannot wield. I am merely a sword in the King's sheathe."

"Hmph," their father snorted. "That's always been your game. Sit back and avoid the blame."

"What father means to say is that, though we find no fault in what you've done, sometimes there's larger fault in doing nothing."

"To hell we don't find fault with what he's done!" their father growled.

"Amazing sentiment," James said, pushing his chair back and rising, taking his plate. "The meal was good. Thank Jessica for me when she returns. Tell her I'm sorry I could not stay longer."

"Do you really think Jessica can summon anyone? I had her call you here. Think you to walk out on my invitation?"

"I've come, and I've heard what you have to say. I've finished my meal, and I'm leaving."

"You'll stay and listen to your brother!" Father shouted.

"Now, now, father. We must show brother James our respect. Very well. Leave if you must. But here! A man of your position clearing his own plate? Allow our friend to help you with that. Greco, would you?"

At this, the large tattooed man moved over to James and took the dishes out of his hands. For a moment, their hands touched. James felt masses of calloused skin on Greco's fingers. The man could probably punch through stone without feeling it.

"I appreciate it," James said to Greco. He nodded at the table. "Father, brother. It's been the usual pleasure."

James turned to leave, but, though he had taken the dishes, Greco hadn't moved and was blocking James' way. The young knight's eyes narrowed. He pushed past the large man, feeling like he was pushing past a brick wall, and headed for the door.

Suddenly there was a sound of rushing air. James instinctively tilted his head to one side. As such, the pewter plate missed his face, spinning past his right ear to embed itself three inches into the wooden front door.

He spun around to see Greco casually withdraw his right hand, the one which had previously held the plate. James' hand automatically went to his sword belt, only to discover he'd left his blade at the manor. A coldness flowed through him. It seemed his blood had turned to ice. Only his heart beat fiercely in a fiery rage.

"What manner of foul play is this?" he hissed, turning to his brother, keeping one eye on Greco. "Attacking a knight of the realm in cold blood? Were word of this to reach the King, it would not go well for you!"

"Nay, nor for the whole of Truce. Surely the King's leniency wouldn't be pushed so far as to condone the open slaying of his knights. Do you not see what you've become, brother? You're naught but a tool helping to lead Truce to destruction."

"It's not my actions that endanger the safety of Truce! If you weren't greedy for power, you would give up these silly charades of rebellion!"

His father slammed his hand on the table. "Power? You think this is about power? This is about what's right! You've taken what's ours and I want it back!"

Samdel remained calm, watching James with cool eyes.

"Think you this mere charade, brother? Greco here should be proof of our sincerity. If you think he's talented with dish-ware, you should see him when he has a man's head in his hands."

Samdel gritted his teeth with a crunching sound. James shook, though he couldn't tell if it was fear or anger that tremored his body. Samdel continued:

"I didn't call you here to threaten you. I called you here to warn you. The people of Truce have spoken out against the King's military occupation. Where do you think we got the coin to hire Greco, here? His abilities don't come cheap. The money was put up by over half the town."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Doubt all you like. The point is, you are the enemy now, brother. I would have it differently."

Their father scoffed. "You speak to deaf ears, son. James is happy being where he is. He's enjoying the fruits of his labour, picked right out from under us."

"I had nothing to do with them taking the house, father."

"You stole the house just like you stole the life of your mother."

There was silence in the room, though it was a silence heavy with emotions that had been suppressed for years. Samdel took a sudden renewed interest in his meal. Their father looked straight ahead, avoiding James' stare. Even Greco reacted, raising his eyebrows inquisitively as he looked at the family. Finally Samdel sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair.

"Well, now father, that's an unfair statement that I'm sure you don't mean. Father's been stressed, you see. I'm sure you understand." For once Samdel didn't sound confident, and James realized suddenly that he somehow agreed with their father's sentiment.

"Let me see you outside, James," Samdel said, rising to open the door. Greco began to follow, but Samdel waved him off.

James found he couldn't move. He continued to stare at his father's wrinkled face. His father's eyes were wet with unshed tears. James couldn't bring himself to cry. He felt only a deep emptiness and a feeling of sinking, as if he would fall through his own body and melt into the floor, with the image of his father sitting silently at the table forever implanted on his mind.

He felt a tug on his elbow, and the feeling brought him back to himself long enough to leave with Samdel. Outside it was unusually warm for winter, but to James' eyes all the cheer had left the day. With a bulging of his nostrils Samdel breathed in the fresh air and sighed.

"Forgive father, won't you? Better yet, give him reason to love you."

"He's had every reason a father should ever need. His hatred of me runs too deep to be brushed aside this late in life."

"If not for me or father, then for Jessica and your sisters. Think on Romana. What kind of life is she destined to live, marked as part of a traitor family? She'll never be free of the dishonor." Samdel saw James looking away and frowned. "Are you listening to me?"

"She wasn't your mother, Sam. How can you blame me for her death?"

Samdel looked away, his mouth twisted in involuntary disgust.

"Neither of us had a mother, James." He looked back. "Think on what I've said. Things are already in motion. By the time Solstice is over, there won't be any escaping."

"What do you have planned?"

"It doesn't behoove me to tell you at this time. Remember, by the time Solstice is over, it will be too late. I hope to find your sword at my side, and not at my throat, James."

Now, thinking back on the conversation from within the dark confines of the mayor's residence, James felt his anger and sorrow arise anew. What was a man without family? James had no place in his father's heart, and his brother saw him only as a well placed tool. He'd be damned before he'd let them coerce him into betraying his King. He wondered about Samdel's words... what plot was brewing in the King's court? If only he knew, he could warn his Lord. The sentiment felt empty even in his mind, though. He thought about Jessica and little Romana. They would suffer now no matter what action he took, and he was bound to suffer with them.

He finished his drink and threw his glass into the fire, the explosion drowning out his curses against the fate that had caused him to be born into such despair.


	15. Part xiv

It was some time after nightfall. The moon shone through the windows of the castle's banquet room. Everyone was sitting at the long rectangular table that filled the room; the noise of excited chatter pervaded the air. Families had been placed together and were engaged in conversations loudly enough that everyone was awarded a sense of privacy in the general clamor. As the chairs got closer to the head of the table, the people sitting in them rose in levels of importance. Captain Sariah sat close to the end, at the point where the table cornered to form a four-chair wide lip before cornering again and heading back down the room. Sitting in those four chairs were Bill, Crono, Crono's mother, and Nadia, in that order. Though he had not been given the title officially, everyone took Bill to be Crono's new advisor. The position hadn't made him popular with the other councilors, seated across from Sariah, and never had he been more unpopular than now, when his seating arrangement showed his favour with the King.

Only one councilor seemed not to care. Melchior sat directly across from Sariah, beaming and drinking wine in between bursts of conversation. He was a dumpy old man with a wispy beard who wore extremely small spectacles. Underneath the hat that marked his position as a councilor, his hair was bright white, yet despite what must have been his many years, he looked about him with a keenness that spoke of infallible vitality. Aside from being the greatest swordsmith of all time he was one of the kingdom's most respected members of state. Melchior was regaling Nadia and Crono's mother, Gina, with a long winded but apparently humorous tale: the Queen's silver laughter rang out clear across the table.

Yet it was the more subdued laughter of Gina which drew Sariah's attention.

Sariah had come to the castle as a young boy, and had lived there most of his life, eventually taking over his father's position as Captain of the King's Knight's of Guardia and marrying one of the servant lasses after he got her heavy with child. One day his own son, Ghetz, would take the position from him, and more and more he wondered how close that day might be. Sariah was forty five now, and beginning to feel his age. He was also beginning to feel the loneliness that naturally sets in with a fighting man who has survived to see peace. His wife had died of a wasting disease nearly fifteen years ago, most of his friends were dead, and his son was grown. Though he doubted the military take over of Truce would hold for long, it was his son's first posting away from the castle, and his absence for the first time in his life showed Sariah just how alone he really was.

Sariah had never remarried after his wife had died. At first he had stayed alone in honor to her memory. Then he had kept himself from taking a lover so to not offend Ghetz. But when Ghetz, a month ago, had asked his father why he hadn't taken a wife yet, Sariah knew he needn't hold strong any longer.

Sariah caught Gina's eye from his chair and she smiled at him knowingly. Crono's mother was in her mid fifties, but she was still an attractive woman with a sound mind. The two had taken to keeping each other company during the cold winter nights. Neither of them saw any particular reason to make their relationship public or to seek a legal marriage. Crono's birth had been hard on her body, and had left her barren, or so an apothecary had told her long ago. There was no risk of her becoming pregnant, and thus no risk to their relationship by way of a complicated addition to the royal line. Although Sariah had to admit, he was glad that Crono didn't know of the affair, busy as he was with matters of state. Something about the King was frightening these days. Sariah wasn't the only one of the King's retainers to think so, either. He'd heard whisperings at court from the servants and councilors. The King had changed since returning from Choras. Some said it was but a temporary affect of the long winter. Others went so far as to suggest Bill was a demon Crono had summoned for some dark task. To suggest that royalty was caught up in dark arts was treason, but Sariah had to admit that if anyone seemed fit to play the role of a demon, it was the quiet man with the metallic arm sitting next to the King, his lips red with his wine.

Next to Sariah, Ghetz shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, not touching his drink. Sariah wondered what he thought about the King's councilor, but Ghetz wouldn't look at his father, let alone speak with him. Sariah grimaced at the irony at it, that he would be enraged at his son for flirting with royalty when he was bedding the kingdom's matron. Still, sleeping with the King's mother was one thing. Getting drunk and dancing with the King's wife was quite another, especially when the dance was a sensuous tango. The red swelling bruise on Ghetz's face marked where his father had knocked him sober. It seemed he'd knocked him silent as well. It was just as well. Sariah didn't know what he would say to his son right now and his sulking refusal to talk gave him the chance to hear what Crono was saying to Bill at the end of the table. Sariah listened with interest. The councilors weren't the only ones with suspicions concerning the man from Choras. Aside from his bizarre appearance (Sariah had done a double take the first time he'd seen the black metallic arm), Bill had a strange air about him, and Sariah had been curious for a long time as to just what he talked about with the King when the two of them were on their customary walk, or were holed up in one of the castle's towers. Their current subject seemed to be the growth of the kingdom.

"Expansion is what our kingdom needs," Crono was saying, nodding his head in agreement with himself. "The lands between here and Truce are all open for construction."

"The problem with expanding into the East is that we'd be building over our farmlands," Bill said in his usual monotone voice. "If we seek to expand in that direction, I fear we won't be able to maintain our population. People will starve."

"Expansion is occurring whether or not we can support it," Crono said in an exasperated tone. "The death rate is down, mostly thanks to Poore's medical advances. Birth rates are up. Poore's population will double come Spring."

"There's always Fiona's forest."

Though she seemed to be listening to Melchior, Sariah thought he saw Nadia stiffen next to Crono. She looked across Gina to Crono. The King was shaking his head.

"No," he said. "Absolutely not. Don't mention it again."

Bill shrugged. "Very well. But you yourself have said that Poore is not going to stop growing. You have to make space for the newcomers. Our options are limited."

"Our options seem non-existent."

"Not entirely. As I said, we are limited on this continent. We have to think outside of the walls of our own kingdom. Medina and Choras both have much unused land."

"Medina and Choras wouldn't allow us to settle their territory. They would consider it an act of invasion and would fight it. They do have standing armies, after all."

"Expansion requires certain expenditures. It may be time to start turning our thoughts to our military. Costly in the short run, but with the right tools, we could storm any continent with minimal loss of life."

Crono looked skeptical. Bill leant forward in his chair, his eyes showing a flair of life, though his voice remained cool.

"Consider," he said. "Choras is a nation of thieves and mercenaries. Very useful in a war, but we're in peace time right now. Their economy is suffering. For the right price and against the right force, many would desert to Guardia's cause."

"Of course, you would know when it comes to Choras, but Medina? The mystics are not to be under-estimated."

"Not over-estimated, either. They lost their last war against the humans, when they were both more numerous and powerful. What makes you think they would win one now?"

"I'd hope it wouldn't come to war. I'm not looking to attack the kingdom's allies. Though it is true we need the land more than they do."

"Well, if you want to avoid conflict, there's the El Nido peninsula. The area is rich in resources."

"The area is infested with monsters."

"Are you saying that you, of all people, can't handle a few monsters?"

"No," Crono allowed himself a slight smile. He looked towards Melchior, laughing drunkenly a few chairs away. "Though our 'tools' may be a little rusty."

"Not to worry. I've thought of a way around that, as well."

At that moment, a young page approached the King.

"My Lord, it is time," he said, and set a large goblet of wine in front of him.

"We'll talk more of this later, in my chambers," Crono said to Bill, then he rose and banged a spoon against the crystal goblet, sending a note down the table that pierced the loudest conversations and brought the room to silence.

"Tonight is the first night of the Solstice," Crono said. Though obvious, this was the traditional way to begin the speech, and it was met with the traditional, though truly enthusiastic, applause. Crono waited for it to die down, then continued. "As is customary on the Solstice, I am sharing my home with those dear to me. The kingdom of Guardia is great because of the love of its people." More scattered applause. "I will do whatever must be done to keep that love. That is my duty, as it is your duty to remember and honor those who would care for you. In time, you will come to appreciate the way I do things, and will learn not to question me."

The room was uncomfortably silent. The King's words dripped with sudden accusation. Thankfully, the moment was brief. Crono had more to say. He raised his glass high, a sign he was about to drink, and everyone filled their glasses and raised them expectantly, though many cast sideways glances at their neighbors to see if they, too, had noticed the change in atmosphere. "It is tradition for us all to drink together. However, this year, I wish to change tradition, if just a little. We had a custom in Truce when I was growing up. On the Solstice, we would bring food and drink to our neighbors, and receive in turn. I hear the custom is still performed in Truce, and I wish to acknowledge that spirit. If everyone will pass their full cup down one seat to the left before drinking..."

The action was received with laughter: people always liked small harmless changes. Glasses exchanged hands. The mood lifted. Crono's glass went to his mother. Bill passed his glass to Crono and received Sariah's with his usual stony face.

"Let this symbolize peace in my nation and respect to those who sit beside us every day!" Crono downed his glass. In unison everyone else followed suit. As Sariah set down his son's empty glass, he thought on Crono's brief words. All in all, the speech was well executed. It acknowledged Truce, which was on everyone's minds, whether they brought it up or not. Surely this was a sign that Crono wished peace to be the result of his military action against the coast town. Sariah choose to ignore the accusatory interlude. And shortly he was distracted by an enticing smell, announcing the arrival of the feast. Servants carried platters of food into the hall, the King and Queen rising to help them (tradition demanded that the host personally serve his guests at Solstice). Sariah was just eyeing a delicious looking turkey that had been placed near him when someone screamed.

Gina was standing, her hand over her mouth. Blood poured between her fingers. Sariah was frozen in his chair watching her. His brain wouldn't register what his eyes were showing him. The matron made a few hacking sounds deep in her throat, and then she fell into the table, vomiting blood. At that Sariah's muscles started working again, and he found himself sprinting to Gina to cradle her in his arms. He didn't know what to do, or what to say. It felt like he was trying to think through a layer of cotton. There was a bizarre clarity to his vision, yet all he could see with that clarity was Gina falling, over and over again.

As if his head was on a string, Sariah felt his gaze drawn upwards to Crono, who was standing almost comically, with a platter of potatoes in his hands, staring at his mother. Sariah didn't know what to say. Nonetheless, he felt his lips moving and heard his voice speaking words:

"Your mother, my liege... she's dead."


	16. Part xv

Later generations would remember the night as a singular turning point in Guardia's history, and it was given the name "The Night of Flames." Amidst the other occurrences of that night, the death of Gina, the King's mother and the matron of the nation, became an almost forgotten footnote in the annals of time.

The only mention of the death concerns the pandemonium following it, in which the 'King disappeared from the castle. Even here, opinions differ wildly on what exactly transpired. Panic is assumed by every historian, though few are in agreement about the degree of panic. Speculation ranges from scenarios of the entire castle fleeing in fear into the forest to accounts of guests finishing supper in a sort of shocked stupor. Their one common belief is that the King himself remained perfectly calm, almost indifferent to the death. Some historians think this a demonstration of his fabled ability to stay clear-minded in the most frantic of situation. On the other extreme, some see it as an admission of guilt, that he had some hand in the death of his mother. By the time the Night of Flames had been entered into historical texts, two distinct groups had emerged, one reading history in favour of the King and the other against, so these extremes are not wholly surprising.

No-one guessed the truth, that in the chaos it was the Queen who kept her head.

Immediately following Sariah's declaration, panic broke out over the guests. It wasn't the loud, screaming sort of panic which everyone envisions during a crisis. Rather it was a breathless silence made heavy with unspoken confusion and unanswered questions. All eyes were on Crono. He simply stood, unmoving, looking at the corpse of his mother. In that moment, Crono seemed more helpless than Nadia had ever imagined him capable of being. In that moment, her husband and the man she'd loved for five years seem to have died, and she wasn't sure if he could ever be brought back.

If anything, it was pride that forced Nadia to action and broke the spell Gina's death had placed over everyone. Nadia simply couldn't stand to let the room see her husband so unsure of himself. For another man, maybe, it would have been acceptable. But Crono had always been a rock amidst storm, her personal anchor. To see him broken was more than she could bear. She couldn't allow the kingdom to share that pain.

"We're moving the feast to the knight's quarters," Nadia declared. For a moment no-one did anything. Than the servants leapt into action, grabbing plates and trays and carrying them out of the room. Dutifully the guests began to follow, grabbing their wine glasses and whispering amongst themselves all the while. Nadia knew she had to go with them if the illusion of sanity was to be complete. She walked straight-backed and kept her head high as she followed the guests, becoming the very image of control. She risked one glance back as she left the dining hall. Crono still stood in one place, still held the platter of potatoes, still had a blank look on his face as if life and happiness would never show there again.

It was the last time Nadia ever saw him.

Finally the hall was cleared of people, excepting Bill, Melchior and the other councilors, Sariah and Ghetz, and Crono himself. Immediately the councilors crowded around the King but none of them seemed to know what to say. Melchior took Crono's arm. The councilor had sobered fast.

"The body has to be moved. We can't leave it here."

Crono shot him a glare that made the old man take a step back. But the King said nothing nor made any further movement, he just returned to staring at the body.

Bill crouched by Gina's corpse. He bent over her open mouth, sniffing like a hound on the trail of prey. Sariah, still holding the body, scowled at him.

"What are you doing?" he hissed at the man. "Have you no respect for the dead?"

"Not a natural death," Bill said.

"What?" Sariah growled. "You speak nonsense."

"Poison," Bill said matter-of-factly, almost casually. "Most likely in the wine."

Crono's warmth seemed stolen away. Shock now turned to a sickness in his stomache. Where first he couldn't even think, now he wanted to act... but he didn't know what he wanted to do. He didn't like the feeling of inability and uncertainty. It was foreign to him, an unwelcome guest.

"Why?" he asked. He'd meant to say more, but his lips closed on the words of their own accord, as if even they were too exhausted by shock to function properly.

"Why attack the matron, you mean?" Bill finished for him.

"If indeed she was attacked," Sariah added.

"Poison," Bill repeated. "You can smell it on her breath. There's bile in her mouth. It tried to expel itself from the body violently, and killed her in the process. I've seen this death before. It's known as Shinrock poison. It comes from the plants that grow on the foot of mountains, thus the name."

"You know an awful lot about the subject of poisons," Sariah said.

Bill turned his heavy lidded eyes to Sariah with a slow twist of his head.

"I was born in Choras to a father who disliked competition. Poison was for him what a sword is to a normal man. He used to have me watch the bodies after he administered the drug, pointing out the various effects and occasionally, if he was feeling generous, the cure. I didn't shed a tear for him when he met his death at the end of a blade. But his training has come in handy. Like now, for instance."

Bill looked back at Crono.

"Your mother was murdered, my liege. There is no question about that. As for why she was murdered, I'd imagine any of your councilors could hazard a guess."

Crono looked to the councilors surrounding him. They looked at each other. Eventually, their eyes all turned to Melchior. The old man sighed.

"What is being implied here is that as there is no political reason to have killed your mother, it's obvious that she wasn't the target. No one knew that you were going to have us pass glasses like that, my Lord. And didn't you pass your glass to your mother?"

If ever there was a moment when Crono would've shed tears over his mother's death, that would've been it. Melchior's words hit him like an accusation that he couldn't deny. If not for him, his mother would still be alive. It didn't matter that he hadn't been the one to drop poison in the glass. He had passed death to her all the same. Was she in pain before she died? How much of the pain could be blamed on him?

"It was a very quick death," Bill said softly, watching Crono's features and guessing at his fears. "Indeed, Shinrock is one of the fastest acting poisons in the world. She wouldn't have felt much pain. Just surprise."

Sariah's head fell and he keened involuntarily, an admission of a lover's grief that was tactfully ignored by the others, though it wrung all their hearts. Only Bill seemed unaffected, continuing his musing.

"The use of Shinrock raises some interesting questions. There are poisons that make the death seem completely natural, killing the victim slowly over the course of several days, or even weeks, months, or years. If you wanted to kill the King, why not use one of these, giving yourself ample time to escape?"

"How easily are these other poisons obtained?" Melchior asked.

"You're thinking that the poisoner went for ease and not for effect? Well, it's a sound theory, I must admit. Shinrock is easily obtainable, and all one has to do is to dry the roots and crush them into a fine powder. It does have a funny taste to it, but by the time you've detected it, you're dead or dying."

"How are we supposed to catch this bastard?" Sariah asked, raising his head and wiping his face on a sleeve.

"Well," Melchior began slowly, thinking. "The killer would've had to poison the glass sometime after it was poured. They might've fled immediately after, but there's a chance they are still on the castle grounds. Perhaps a search of the grounds is in order? Councilors, will you please start making rounds? Check every corner. And talk to the servants. If any one of them cannot give a good account of where they were during the supper, bring them here. And find out who poured the wine."

"The servants, my Lord?" one of the councilors asked.

"Think. They would've had the best chance of getting close to the wine when it was poisoned. Even if one of them didn't do it, they might have seen something. Any information we can get could be useful, especially if they've seen someone fleeing the castle."

"I'll conduct a search of the exterior, then, my liege," Sariah said. Thinking of Melchior's suggestion as an order finally allowed him to set Gina's body down. The long years of following the directives of superiors gave him the discipline needed to set aside his pain. He would drown it later with tears in his own chambers. He wanted his tears to be private. He would not give himself the leisure to cry again afterwards, and he wanted the moment to himself.

For now, he just wanted to catch the killer. He left the room determined to not fail in his mission. The councilors followed him out, discussing (with a large degree of discomfort) where a murderer might be hiding in the castle.

Oddly, Ghetz did not follow his father out. He wasn't entirely satisfied with the description of the night's events. One detail in particular bothered him.

"When would the poison have been put in the glass?" Ghetz asked.

"I would assume it had to be when the glass was poured," Melchior said. "I think it's safe to say the whole barrel of wine wasn't poisoned. Otherwise, we wouldn't be standing to discuss this. The King and Queen drink out of special cups to mark them as hosts of the Solstice, so anyone could've figured out which glasses were theirs."

"But only the King's cup was poisoned," Ghetz said. "Whoever planned this didn't want to kill the Queen. Their vendetta is against the King. In order for the right glass to be brought to the right person, the killer would have to be whoever served the wine, wouldn't it?"

No one said anything while they digested this bit of logic. Melchior in particular looked uncomfortable, his mouth half open as if he were debating whether to speak again, though it was Crono who asked the obvious question:

"Who served the wine?"

Again Melchior hesitated, but this time he spoke:

"It is not positive that whoever served the wine was the murderer, my Lord."

"Have you gone daft, Melchior?" Crono shook his head. "If we find the man who served the wine, we find the man who killed my mother."

"Leaping to conclusions in such an emotional matter can be dangerous."

"Do you know something, councilor?"

"My Lord... tonight many of the servants were honored guests at your table. Such were your own orders, and noble they were. Of course, that left us needing to find others to perform the services such as cooking... and wine preparation."

"Come to the point, councilor."

"We found those men in Truce, my Lord. The men who would've poured the wine were from Truce."

"Ah," Crono let out his breath in a long painful sigh that finished in a raspy gasp for air. He sagged, feeling the weight of the kingdom pressing him to the floor and crushing him. For a moment he felt like letting himself be crushed and forgetting the guilt that threatened to stretch his heart in a million directions until nothing was left. He had been challenged and a vicious blow had been struck. But then another line of thought came to him, and he straightened.

"Out of my way," the King said, pushing past Melchior and Ghetz and heading for the door. Everyone was too stunned to react, but Melchior came into the hallway before Crono had gotten far and grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?"

Crono shook him off. "I need to think."

"And just what is your plan? To ride alone into Truce and demand to be given your mother's murderer?"

Crono didn't answer. He continued walking, heading for the stairs that led to the basement. Melchior followed him, though he stopped at the stairs. As Crono began to descend, the councilor called after him.

"I did not create the sword to be used for the shedding of innocent blood! Remember just whose power flows through it. That power will corrupt you, as it did a certain Queen long ago!"

Crono would remember these words not much later, as he stood in the dungeon, holding Masamune and staring at his reflection in the sword's mirrored surface. He had always fought with his heart, fought for what was right. He had always known what justice was, and never had he doubted his abilities to deliver it.

Nor did he now.

A noise sounded from behind him, and Crono spun around. Bill was leaning in the doorway to the room, watching him intently. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Bill was looking at the blade with an intense glare that he finally raised to Crono's face.

"Losing a mother is a terrible thing," he said.

"What would you know of it?" Crono growled.

Bill scowled and Crono took a half step back, thinking the man was going to attack him as he had in Choras. Crono wondered at his sudden anger. Though Bill and he had spent many hours together since their return to Guardia, none of those hours had been devoted to Bill's history. Crono knew he was an orphan but his reaction to Crono's statement spoke a silent story.

As suddenly as he'd shown his rage, Bill controlled himself and spoke again in his soft, calm, voice.

"This was not the work of someone seeking to simply displace you. Whoever planned this wants to throw the kingdom into chaos. Imagine if you had been the one to drink from that cup. There would be pandemonium right now. A King has not died an unnatural death in Guardia for over a hundred years. If you ride to Truce, be careful."

"Do not worry about me," Crono said. Then he strode past Bill, turned a corner, and was gone.

Bill stood for a moment longer, looking at the altar upon which Masamune had lain. It seemed to him that, in the flickering of the dungeon's torches, the altar was red, as if already stained with blood.


	17. Part xvi

Ghetz rode with his body pressed so closely against his mount that he felt he was an extension of the animal. The heavy scent of horse filled his nostrils. The wind blew against his back, chilling the sweat that plastered his shirt to his skin. The air was wet and tingled with raw power. A storm was brewing.

Ghetz was barely steering his horse, trusting it to follow Sariah's grey stallion ahead. The night was dark and the forest they rode through did little to help visibility. The two of them had been riding for nearly an hour and a half, following the King's trail through the woods. Fortunately, it was an easy trail to mark. The King had stuck to the path, and the rains of the night before made each hoof print his horse left a small crater in the mud. Even so, Sariah rode even more bent over than Ghetz, his face hanging to one side of his stallion, eyes scanning the road they ran, checking to see that the trail was still visible.

At least the King could not reach Truce in a single night. Even if he wanted to ride through the night, his horse would tire and slow and eventually Crono would be forced to make camp. Hopefully the rest would give him a chance to calm his nerves and give Sariah and Ghetz a chance to reach him. Sariah feared for his liege's life. Truce was, after all, home to resentment against the King and someone there had made an attempt on his life. If the King drew a mob around himself, it would be easy for another unknown someone to do harm to him. Ghetz knew, logically, that he should share in his father's fears, but for some reason his anxieties lay with what the King might do to the citizens and not the other way around. Something in his gut made him wary in the King's presence, a feeling he'd had ever since they rode to Truce to depose the mayor. However quiet Crono might be, there was a raging storm within him waiting to be unleashed. This night had been the first time he'd seen the King since his return from Truce, and if anything he seemed more unpredictable and dangerous than ever. Everyone had gossiped about Bill being a terrifying figure, and Ghetz did find him oddly disturbing, but he couldn't help feeling that he and his father were chasing after the real hurricane.

Ghetz found his thoughts trailing back to the castle, and the Queen. He'd grown up with her in the castle, and though their stations had long kept them separate, they had been playmates once. During that time he'd developed childish feelings for her. He'd expected these feelings long diminished, but at the banquet they had rushed upon him again. Though agreeing to dance with the Queen to dance had been more a result of the wine than anything, the energy and feeling behind their dance had been shockingly real.

"Hold!" his father cried out suddenly, and Ghetz quickly pulled in his thoughts and his horse, almost falling off as the animal braked and reared in surprise.

"Why are we stopping?" Ghetz cried over the sound of the rising wind. He steered his mare towards his father, who was sitting straight backed in the saddle, his head lifted a bit and his eyes closed. He didn't answer Ghetz, who looked around impatiently. They were in a small clearing. The trees of the forest bent and weaved in the heavy wind. Ghetz could taste rain on the wind, that taste of sharp wetness.

"Why are we lingering here?" Ghetz asked softly. He looked around a bit uneasily. There was definitely something in the air aside from the heaviness of the impending storm. He felt like he was on a stage, being watched by a thousand spectators. His horse tossed her head and whinnied nervously.

"Do you not hear that?" Sariah said. Ghetz listened, but all he heard was the scream of the wind. Ghetz trusted his father's instinct, but he couldn't see any reason for them to be stopping in the clearing. Here, where the canopy did not extend, the first drops of rain could be felt. It was not a good sign. Aside from the discomfort of the damp and cold, rain would wash away the signs of the King's passage.

And then he heard it. A low buzzing like a hornet.

"There," Sariah said, pointing towards one end of the clearing, where two trees bent together to form an arch. Ghetz could tell there was something strange about the trees, and after a moment he realized that, unlike the other trees, they weren't blowing in the wind. They were perfectly still. Looking closer, Ghetz could see a ripple of movement between the trees, as if there were a heat wave there. But a heat wave in the middle of a storm? Suddenly a flash lit the clearing.

"By the dark one, what was that?" Ghetz cried, trying to keep control of his mount. "Lightning?"

"No, it came from the trees," Sariah said, not taking his eyes off of the bizarre arch. "Listen... ride back to the castle. Inform the Queen and the Councilors that we found the King."

"What? But we haven't found him... have we?"

"The tracks lead there." Sariah pointed towards the arch in the trees.

"What is it?" Ghetz whispered.

"I'm not sure. But I don't think it leads into the forest."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember about five years ago, all those rumors about the forest? People said some fairly strange things. Remember the Blue Eaglets came back? And they'd been extinct for over a hundred years. Some people even disappeared in the north woods."

"I remember."

"I was part of a squad that went looking for them. I was riding in this part of the woods by myself, the team having spread out to cover more ground. It got cold, much too cold for a summer day. I looked down and saw I was walking in snow. It was piled in front of a stand of trees, a copse, and more snow was blowing out I just stood and watched the snow blowing while the sun shone warmly upon my back. And for a brief moment I thought I could see into another world, not unlike this one, but much... younger. Fresher. And I thought that's where the snow and the cold was coming. And then it was gone. The moment passed. The trees were just trees like any other. The snow melted soon enough."

Father and son were silent for a moment, watching the shimmer of the trees in front of them. Then Ghetz spoke:

"And the people you were looking for?"

"We never found them."

"I don't remember you ever telling me this."

"It was never important before."

"Alright, so what's the plan now, then?"

"Go back to the castle."

"So you said. What about you?"

"I'm going to stay here and keep watch. If the King has gone through those trees, then I'm not sure there's much else I can do. There's a deeper mystery here, and I need time to think it over."

"Very well. I leave this mystery to you, then. But I'll be back, with more men. We'll try to make it before the sun."

Ghetz paused. He felt there was something more he should say, but the words wouldn't come to him. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned and rode out of the clearing without saying anything more. Sariah waited until his son had been gone a few minutes, then he clicked his tongue to his horse and rode slowly into the shimmering archway.


	18. Part xvii

It took Ghetz nearly two hours to make it back to the castle. Soon after leaving the clearing, the storm began in earnest and his progress was seriously impeded by the unstable ground. The forest itself seemed determined not to let him pass, throwing roots under his horse's legs and putting branches in his path that he was forced to slow down and dodge, lest he be knocked off his mount.

Eventually, though, the forest thinned out into the royal gardens, and the well-paved path to the castle fell within his sight. Ghetz spurred his mare and together they climbed the sloping butte that the castle was built upon. No servant met him at the gates that surrounded the castle grounds. It was still Solstice, after all, and the feasting and drinking wouldn't end until the sun turned the land red with its rising. Working as fast as he was able, Ghetz stabled his mare and made his way up the last bit of hill before the front doors. By the time he made it, he was panting for breath and cursing the ingenious tactical position of the castle that made taking it an uphill battle.

As Ghetz passed through the doors, he wondered that there were no guards on duty. Before tonight it had been unthinkable that anyone would attack the castle on the holiday. As Ghetz rushed through the unguarded halls, he reflected just how much his assumptions about the world had been challenged in the last few months, starting with his Lord declaring a war he didn't agree with and ending with a murder on the eve of the Solstice. Both times, Ghetz had been powerless. His perception of his own abilities had been severely altered. Ghetz had spent his life living around fighting men. He'd always been taught that being a man meant having power. But now he began to suspect that being a man meant knowing just how little control over life you had. It was not glory on the battlefield but the crushing knowledge of your own weaknesses that marked the passage into adulthood. He felt older now than he ever had before, and here he was muddy from the road and with only a dagger at his belt.

Finally, Ghetz arrived at the closed doors that led to the secondary dining hall where the feast had been relocated. He was about to stride in and find the Queen when a sudden peal of laughter coming from the hall froze him in his tracks. Against the backdrop of murder and desperation, there was still a roomful of people just feet away enjoying a feast. The bizarre sur-reality of the situation suddenly weighed upon him and he staggered backwards, holding his shoulders and cursing at the feeling that was gripping his chest. Though he had not cried since he was a child, he had not forgotten the feeling of his chest being compressed, of his heart sinking towards his knees and rising towards his throat at the same time. With the back of his hand he wiped away the beginnings of tears at his eyes and placed his hands against the doors.

"Hold, son."

At the gentle voice, Ghetz turned, half expecting to see his father, so familiar was the address. Instead, he found Melchior standing, one hand held half way out, as if to catch him. With shock, Ghetz realized he had sunk practically to his knees. He tried to stand but it took him a great effort.

"I-I'm sorry," he said to the councilor. "I don't know what's come over me all of a sudden."

"It's alright, son," the old man's eyes never left his face, and his brows were bent in concern. "Any man who has lost his father would feel the same. And tears shed for him would not be a shame."

Ghetz wondered that the words did not affect him more. He felt nothing, as if he'd already known and mourned. And then he realized he had known, just seconds before as tears threatened his eyes. Still, though he felt calmer than he thought he had a right to, some distress must have shown on his features, because Melchior stepped away suddenly and bowed his head.

"Ah, so you didn't know." Melchior pulled at his chin hairs absent-mindedly. "My apologies for that, then. Truly, there were better ways to give you the news."

"No... I suppose I did know. Though I don't know how. How did this news come to you? How did he die?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know the details. Nor can I tell you how I know except to tell you that I do, and that I am sorry for your loss."

Ghetz felt like strangling the man. This wasn't the time for cryptic words or vague hints. Did Melchior think himself a prophet, that he would deign to know Ghetz's father dead without any sign of evidence or story of the death? The more Ghetz thought about it, the more it seemed to him some cruel jest, played by a drunken Councilor. Except... except that he himself knew his father was dead, without any explanation for how or why he knew. For a brief moment, tears once again threatened his eyes. He shook his head and cleared his throat, but he couldn't find any words.

"Come," Melchior said gently, but firmly. "The Queen awaits."

"The Queen... ah ye gods, what fate has befallen the King? We weren't able to find him."

"He has reached Truce."

"Truce? Impossible." He shook his head and said the words again, as if to confirm them in his own mind. "That's not possible, not in such a short time."

"He went by a different road than most of us would know how to follow."

Ghetz scoffed but wondered, nonetheless, if Melchior indeed told the truth. Could a man travel faster by some hidden road? He remembered his father's words to him, about the archway in the trees. He felt a cold shiver pass down his back. For all he knew, they had been the last words his father had ever spoken.

"How do you know these things?" Ghetz asked. "The time is past, I believe, for mincing words."

"And yet time is of the essence. And sights are worth a thousand words. If you'll come with me, I'll show you."

There seemed nothing else to do, so Ghetz obligingly followed the old man. Behind him, another peal of laughter sounded through the shut doors and echoed down the hall. Ghetz winced involuntarily at the sound. Melchior didn't seem to notice.

As they walked, Ghetz found himself wondering about the old councilor. He had always known that, behind his easy smile and bad facial hair, Melchior was hiding a powerful mind and personality. Now he wondered if perhaps there was more to it than that. The man hadn't entered the employ of the kingdom until Crono had become prince five years prior, but he was already the most respected councilor in Guardia, even having gained the trust of the other councilors (in some ways, his greatest feat) and having managed to avoid the usual back stabbing and bickering of their lot. Supposedly he was behind every major decision of the last three years, and had been highly respected by the old king, Nadia's father. Then, too, his skill at the forge was uncanny, especially for one so aged. Was it too far a stretch to believe that he had somewhat of an oracle's eye? Ghetz searched his memories, but he couldn't find any hard evidence for this. Yet here he was, believing the old man when he said his father was dead and following him through the castle towards an undisclosed destination with all the trust of a small child.

Momentarily, they reached a door. It took Ghetz a moment to realize where they were. When he did, he let his breath out in surprise. This was the Eastern Tower. He hadn't been here since he was a child. Melchior grabbed a torch from the wall and pulled open the rusty door with a sound like a banshee screeching. For as long as he'd lived in the castle, Ghetz remembered the door making that sound. It used to take him and Nadia together to force it open. He smiled, then shook his head. It seemed inappropriate for him to be reliving moments of happiness at such a grave time. Yet, as they entered the long spiral staircase that lay beyond the door, more memories came rushing to surround him like a comforting quilt. The footsteps of two small children seemed to run past him and the light of Melchior's torch became the sun on hot summer days.

"Watch your step," Melchior said, holding the torch close to the stairs and squinting through his glasses at each step. Ghetz barely heard him. He was remembering other words in another time, as a young princess taunted him to beat her to the top of the stairs. He had chased her with wild abandon, ignoring the fact that their game was a dangerous one, that a single misstep could send them tumbling down the stone stairway. They had been beyond such worries, then. Fears of death, or of injury, were unfathomable. Fear is something that people learn with age, something they have to be taught. Back in those days they could lose themselves in the simplest of life's pleasures: the very fact of being alive. Ghetz hadn't clung to the stone wall as he was now, taking every step carefully and deliberately. He had taken the stairs two at a time, never looking where he was going, trusting that he wouldn't fall. And while he was with Nadia, he never did.

The stairway spiraled for many levels. Every once in a while, there was a landing with a door. Usually, the door led back into the castle, and Ghetz and Nadia had explored these branching hallways and passages with glee. There was one door, however, that they always hesitated outside of. It was located at the very top of the stairs. The first person to touch the door would be the winner of the race. Ghetz usually lost. He would arrive, panting, to find her waiting. He remembered her posture: hands on her hips, she would lean slightly forward and warn him away in a scolding tone from opening the door.

"That's the door to dreams," she said. "Open it, and all your dreams will be whisked away." She would make him swear never to open it and then together the two of them would sit on the top stair and imagine what grand things could lie beyond the door. Nadia was an excellent story teller. She would invent whole worlds, filled with adventures and people needing to be saved. Ghetz would add the occasional detail, but mostly he listened, enraptured. The two of them would stay that way as long as they could, which was usually until a harried servant would find them and shoo them back down the stairs and out of the tower.

Though he'd made a promise to Nadia to never open the door, the desire to see the worlds she described was too much for Ghetz, and one day he took to the stairs by himself, the first time he'd ever climbed them alone. It was around sunset, and the tower was dark and foreboding. A cold wind blew through unseen cracks in the stone, slamming the door behind him. That was the first time Ghetz remembered feeling fear. He didn't understand the emotion at the time. He wouldn't fully understand it until minutes later, when he tripped on his hurried way to the top. In the brief instant before he hit the stairs and began to fall down them, he understood what it was to feel mortal, to know that pain and death could come upon you at any moment without warning. He didn't remember the fall, but he remembered the aftermath, the way his finger had been bent all wrong, and the white protrusion jutting from his knuckle that was his bone. The worst pain, though, was seeing Nadia as he was carried from the tower to the infirmary. She had stared at him with wide eyes and a mouth partially open in shock. He wanted to tell her that he hadn't been able to do it, that fate had kept him from ever reaching the door. But he felt he'd betrayed her all the same, and his shame pained him more than his broken finger. They had never climbed the stair again.

So now, as Melchior's hand found the handle of the forbidden door and turned it, Ghetz felt a certain trepidation, as well as a sudden excitement. Though it had only been a child's game, he was finally going to see what lay behind the door to dreams.

With a creak, the door opened. The smell of mildew and dust assaulted Ghetz's nostrils and he sneezed. As Melchior entered the room, the torch light illuminated a room cramped with old furniture: a dusty bed, a chair missing one leg, a dubious chamber pot which appeared to be the home of a large black spider. So this was the room of dreams. Ghetz laughed sardonically at the fancies of children. Then he caught sight of Nadia, sitting on the room's single windowsill, and his heart skipped a beat.

Nadia was still wearing the full regalia of the ballroom, though she had draped a shawl over her shoulders. Her golden hair fell in a braid down her slender back, and she was framed by the moonlight pouring in through the window, a moonlight tinged with the pinkish orange of the approaching dawn. When she turned to look at him, the movement seemed the most graceful thing he'd ever witnessed.

Melchior placed the torch in a dusty sconce near the door. The torch flared upwards, casting the room in a dull orange glow. Melchior walked over to the window and gently took the Queen's hand.

"There's a chill, my Lady. It is probably best to come away from the window."

In fact, the room was rather warm with the Summer air, but as Melchior coaxed Nadia away from the opening, Ghetz saw a look of desperation in her eyes that chilled his blood. He shivered and suddenly yearned to be back on the ground floor, maybe even amidst the laughing guests in the dining room. He also yearned to take the Queen and comfort her in his arms, but instead he simply watched as Melchior led her to a chair by the door and dusted it off for her to sit in. She didn't sit, but instead stood in a pathetic sort of half crouch. Her eyes watched the floor, and her mouth hung slightly open. In that moment, as her sorrow wrung his heart, Ghetz realized he truly did love her.

"Alright," Ghetz said, wrenching his eyes away from Nadia and turning to Melchior. "You said you would show me the answer to your riddles when we got here. I think the time has come."

"Indeed it has," Melchior said. "Look out the window."

Ghetz did, not quite sure what he was expecting to see. Maybe giant omens of death floating in the air? But there was nothing like that. The night was calm. The Eastern tower was the tallest tower in Guardia Castle. From the castle's place on the butte, the tower rose high above even the oldest forest trees. The paths he and his father had ridden only hours ago were hidden by the green of the woods, though Ghetz couldn't help but scan for the clearing he had left his father at. Eventually his search led him to the Eastern edge of the forest which had been cleared for timber and turned into farmland. All seemed peaceful and still.

Ghetz turned away from the sight to see Melchior standing nearby, watching him expectantly.

"What is it I'm supposed to be seeing?" Ghetz asked.

"Look further," the old man said. "Beyond the farm lands to the horizon."

Ghetz sighed and turned back to the window. He was tired of Melchior's hints and instructions. Why couldn't the old man just tell him what he needed to know? He squinted his eyes and tried to see past the farmlands. His gaze raised a little higher until he was looking at the distant horizon. And then he saw it. A black cloud hung heavy over the coast. It was thick like a building storm, but it was too steady to be a squall. Also, the cloud began at ground level, like the smoke from a fire. Ghetz suddenly felt very small.

"By the Omen," he said. "That's the Eastern coast. Truce burns tonight."

"Yes," Melchior said, spitting out the word through a grimace. "And by the King's hand, no less."

At that, Nadia let out a small cry and finally collapsed into the chair. Again Ghetz forced himself to remember his place. Though every muscle in his body wanted him to run to Nadia's side, he forced himself instead to stare hard at the floor and think of her pain, that her beloved would be in danger. He also reminded himself that her beloved was the King, and his liege lord. With that thought, his emotions turned cold and hard and he was able to raise his head, though he avoided looking directly at the Queen.

"Does the King live?" Ghetz asked.

"Indeed he does," Melchior said.

"Then we must prepare for his return."

"Right you are, lad. For now, would you bring the Queen a blanket from the bed? I fear me she will catch cold."

Ghetz looked to the bed. There was an old moth-eaten and moldy wool blanket covering it. Why Melchior ever thought the Queen would want it anywhere near her was a mystery to him, but then she was sitting hugging her shoulders as if indeed the room was freezing cold. He moved to the bed and removed the blanket, shaking the worst of the dust off of it. When he turned back, Melchior was gone. Ghetz saw the door to the tower close. A second later, he heard a key turn with a resounding click. Still absently holding the blanket, he moved to the door and tried the handle.

"What are you doing?" he called out through the locked door. There was a smile on his face: a part of him was willing to believe this some strangely timed attempt at humor. But Melchior's reply wiped the grin from his face and made him feel as if turned to stone.

"Preparing!" Melchior's voice drifted through the sturdy wood door. "The rebels will be coming here shortly. They will be looking to strike a deal with Crono. And it would be best if they had something to barter with."


	19. Part xviii

It's time for a story.

Once upon a time, in the prosperous kingdom of Guardia, there lived a young boy named William, who had been named for his mother's father. William's parents were the King and Queen of the land and were loved by all their subjects. Anyone who didn't love them was murdered by William's father, Crono. William understood that this was good and proper and that to do otherwise would be the height of foolishness. So he was told by his father. Such was the way to protect the future.

His mother, Nadia, told him a different tale. She spoke of days before the future, days of the past when she and Crono had fought monsters and warlocks and all-around bad people for the sake of the world. William liked these stories, even if it was difficult for him to look at his beautiful, serene, mother and imagine her shooting arrows through the hearts of Imps and Shetakes and Reptites.

Crono took a lot of care in raising his son. He showed him how he did his work. Some of it was politics, but more of it was war. He tutored him personally in the use of the blade. William became so good with a blade that he came close, several times, to beating his father. But Crono was always stronger and never let his son forget it. He controlled the power of the elements and could turn suddenly from a kindly mentor, sparring with a favored student, into a warrior fighting for his pride. The change was swift as the breaking of a storm.

Swordplay wasn't the only thing Crono taught William. He taught him how to measure out death in terms of liters and degrees; the proper mixtures of chemicals and biologies. He showed him how a dose of Shinrock in a glass of wine could level an enemy from within their own home. He showed him how a certain plant, if pulped along the edge of a blade, would paralyze an opponent after it cut. He showed him antidotes, too, but only a few of these. There are many ways to kill a man, went the lesson, but only a few to save his life.

His mother gave him lessons, too. She taught him how to read people, how to know that the man praising you meant to turn your followers against you; how to know that the man criticizing you was your best friend and closest ally. She taught him other things, too. Crono showed him how Shinrock could kill; she showed him what it looked like when it flowered. From her he learned the names of plants and animals and came to love the world he lived in with a fervor that made him want to protect it from any enemies. More than that, he would do anything to protect her.

He fought in his first war at thirteen. He had thought his father would not let him come. Crono had always been protective, in his own way. But he ended up encouraging William, putting him on the front lines, even. He smirked with pride when William conquered every enemy that came against him. And William fought in the next war. And the next. For three years he fought, until he turned sixteen.

William had never asked his father what these wars were about. He didn't have to. He was happy and he was gaining Crono's respect and adoration in a way that was foreign to him, but which he enjoyed immensely. And the kingdom was safe. And so was his mother.

The girl changed all of that. She was young, maybe fourteen, when he took her life. It was pure chance that knocked her helmet from her head, a sloppy misstep of hers as she ran to spear his horse. His downswing, aimed from the saddle at her neck, hit the helmet instead and split it, knocking the two pieces to the side. The horse reared. The girl, her blonde hair now spilling down her shoulders, looked up with him in complete fear and then the horse's hooves caved in her face.

He would never know her name. He had never known any of their names. More importantly, he had never known any of their stories. He had never asked what they were fighting for or against. He had always gone where his father told him to and killed whomever was standing against them. He felt a weight settle over him that soured the wine and food he consumed, exhausted him at all hours of the day, and crushed his enjoyment of life. Women had once flocked to his bed, to the mild distaste of his mother; now he pushed them away and spent more time alone, to her moderate concern. He had always accompanied his father on hunts. Now he preferred to watch their passage from the Eastern Tower of the castle, the room where he'd been born.

Fighting became harder. The wars continued and he continued to fight in them, but now he felt less like a leader of men and more like just a single man. He'd never thought that he could be injured before, at least not seriously. He'd never thought he could lose. Now he began to see himself as not so different from everyone else on the battlefield. Every enemy he felled could be him in a few minutes time. If the father noticed the change in his son, Crono made no sign of caring. Crono was still a storm. He controlled a blade like a third arm and he had power over the elements that could only be called magic. His concerns were unfathomable.

One day William was cut down when his horse was killed in battle. He was trapped underneath the beast and the wild blow that was aimed at him from his attacker cut his right arm clean off. The peasant who cut him down was a nondescript middle aged farmer with a rusty axe. William never saw him again. He never knew his name or whether he survived the battle.

Crono went to great lengths to save his son. He found him after the battle and brought him home, where Nadia used her own magic to keep him on the very brink of life. Crono, meanwhile, set about finding a solution to his arm. He found his answer in Lucca Ashtear, who worked for the Poorian military as a technological developer. She invented the metal that would become his new arm, calling it the Strong Arm. It _was_ strong, stronger than his old one and weighing no more then his old muscle, flesh, and bone had. William hated that arm.

Something in the strain and effort of keeping him alive damaged his mother. Nadia lost her energy and her vibrancy. She took to sitting in the Eastern tower for hours at a time, sometimes spending the entire day alone in a chair, rocking back and forth and not speaking or eating. Crono, meanwhile, continued winning his wars and William continued to fight in them. Now that he had faced death, the battlefield seemed surreal. It felt like he was playing a game. He could see lists in front of him of all the possible futures, branching out from single sword strokes. All he had to do was choose which one he wanted and it would happen. But his victories no longer seemed to please his father as once they had. Crono fought more viciously in each war, until his support shrunk and his kingdom, once encompassing the very idea of protection, became known simply as "The Fell."

Eventually the people would stand for no more. The servants of the castle revolted, taking Nadia hostage and saying they would release her if the King would come to his senses and parlay with them. Crono listened and for the first time in a long time, William thought that maybe his father had a heart. He marveled that his mother, even in her dilapidated state, could melt his frosty countenance. But the people wanted more than Crono was willing to give. They wanted him to step down from his throne and leave The Fell, to be banished to the isles of El Nido. He didn't just refuse. He murdered the entire envoy. That night, Nadia's head was sent to the castle in an iron box. She was forty two when she had died. William was twenty years younger.

William fled into the Guardia forest. It was like he was in a battle. The myriad paths of the future were pounding through his mind, giving him no rest. They showed him option after option and only one ending. Guardia would fall, but not before the world burned. There was no future left.

It was in this aurora of clarity that he found the gate. He didn't realize he'd walked through it until he felt how cold everything was. It had been summer when he'd entered the woods: now a fine snow dotted the ground. He continued to walk, knowing his way and yet recognizing little. Trees that he knew had been cut down were miraculously regrown... or never cut down in the first place.

He eventually found his way back to the castle. There he saw his mother, only she was much younger then he could ever remember seeing her. She was also very pregnant. Like most single children, his instant reaction to this was that he didn't care to have a little sibling running around the castle. Then the greater realization of what he was seeing struck him. His mother was alive. She hadn't died... yet.

Stories he'd grown to disbelieve came rushing back to him. They were his mother's stories about a future that couldn't be allowed to exist, about journeys that took his parents through time to change their fates. Had it been Lucca who had once told him about the Time Gates? It had been after a feast and she'd been drunk that night. He'd assumed she had been leading him on. But now he was positive she had been telling the truth.

So he learned that it was "when" he was and not "where" that mattered. He withdrew from the castle and took up residence in Poore, which he had visited often enough in his own timeline that he figured he'd be able to find some foothold there. How wrong he had been. Poore existed, yes, but it wasn't the Poore he'd known at all. This Poore, just now celebrating its creation of a city-wide sewer system, was woefully underdeveloped compared to the one he'd left behind. Where were the skyscrapers? the well dressed businessmen and merchants? the parks containing specimens from all over the world? and, on the edge of the city, the weapon's factories that belched black and yellow smoke into the sky? William was lost. More than lost, he was homeless. He had never had to provide for himself, before. The few coins in his pocket were minted for a year that didn't yet exist. They were useless. He soon found himself starving on the streets of Poore, hiding his arm (which frightened people) and begging for bread (which was often so stale it caused his mouth to bleed). For two months he lived in this manner, until news came from the castle that the queen's son had died in childbirth.

It is a strange thing to hear of your own birth. It is a stranger thing to hear of your own death immediately after. Days after hearing the news William would wake in a cold sweat, look at his body, and expect to see it fading into nothingness. But no. The past hadn't changed his present. He had no longer been born and yet here he was, still existing. He was already in this world. He supposed the timeline wouldn't handle a second version of him.

William stopped thinking of himself by his birth name. He shortened it to Bill and turned to the tools his father had taught him, those of the assassin. There is a saying in Guardia: the path of the murderer leads either to the noose or to Choras. Bill ended up in Choras. It was in Choras, no longer starving and no longer lacking shelter, that he heard of his father's military occupation of Truce.

How to describe the feelings that went through him upon learning of this event? It was like standing still in front of a swinging axe. He'd been here before. He'd seen this happen and he knew how it ended: the kingdom embroiled in war; his mother dead. The answer, the way to dodge the axe, came to him from his mother's own stories, his favorite story, the one where she and father went back in time to save the future. Mother was never sure how much he should hear of these stories. Father was always telling him the gory parts, about monsters in cathedrals dressed in human skin and a horror, something like a giant shelled beetle, raining fire upon the world. Mother liked to tell the parts about her and father and their friends, loving each other and looking towards life's little joys. It was confusing, like each one of them had lived a totally different version of the events. Bill had asked her, once, if she had killed anyone. She had hesitated. The she had nodded solemnly.

"We killed to save the future."

The answer now was the same. Bill would kill to save the future. He would kill his father. He wasn't anything more than a monster in human skin, anyway.

Crono turned out to be weaker than Bill had expected. In the old days (the future days) Crono would have charged an assassin's bones with enough electricity to bake him from the inside out. But what Bill faced was no mage. He faced a man already passing his prime, fighting with polished but predictable sword techniques. In the battle, Bill felt the touch of destiny. He was destined to win this fight. What else could it mean, when a man he had always feared was suddenly, unexplainably, weaker than him? Then he felt the touch of fate, and it was a heavier touch. It scorched his arm, turned it into a mangled mess, and it did it through Crono's hand. The only thing he could think, as Crono won the fight, was how disappointed his father would have been in him. He'd made a miserable assassin; all that training gone to waste.

Bill waited for his father to end his life, the way he'd ended his mother's. But it didn't happen. Instead Crono had hesitated, spared his life and, when Bill had requested it, given him a place at court. Over the next few months, Bill would feel he was getting to know two versions of his father. One was a man foreign to him, someone who loved Nadia so much he ached for her. It hurt Bill and confused him. He would spend hours getting to know this man, this new father. He grew close to him. He loved this man. This was the man he'd heard about in her stories, the man who would sacrifice himself to save everything he loved. This wasn't a man who had killed to save the future. This was a man who had given everything he had to save the future.

He almost didn't do it. He almost didn't put the poison in the wine. It was a desperate plan at best. He couldn't poison all of the wine because of the dilution. Shinrock was a deadly poison but the little bit he'd brought with him from Choras would do no good added to an entire cask of wine. Not to mention he couldn't risk his mother drinking it. He'd have to put it in the right cup, which meant dropping it in at the banquet table itself. He'd debated the entire night whether to do it, carrying the poison in a small vial in his robes. Then he'd seen her.

"Do you require aid, my lady?" he had asked.

"I'm fine," Nadia had replied.

Then he had watched her flirt with Ghetz. Later, Crono had watched her dance with Ghetz. Bill watched his eyes. There was an old fear that stayed hidden close to Bill's heart. It was the fear of the child who hides under his bed or closes his eyes to make monsters go away. It was the fear of his father. In a single glance that night, the glance Crono gave Nadia and the ignorant Ghetz, he saw the man who had burned a nation. The fear returned and with it his resolve. However much he loved the man his father was now, he had to kill the man he would become. The poison entered the glass and Bill told himself that he wouldn't cry when the man drank it.

When the glasses were passed to the left, Bill's whole skin went cold. It was an old tradition. He had known it. But he had forgotten it. One simple mistake and he was responsible for the death of his grandmother. More than that. Truce was blamed for the poisoning. It was like watching a building collapse, little by little and stone by stone, with the people still inside. Bill had never known how the wars between his father and the rest of the kingdom had started. He'd never known his grandmother either. She had died, he had been told, before he was born. Killed by an assassin. Things were coming together in his mind in a way that sent spikes of fear into his heart. He had thought that he was coming back in the past to prevent something, not to cause it. The future was refusing to change.

It is an odd thing, but when a man has watched his plans crumble around him he rarely pulls out. Logic would tell us that when the path we've chosen has turned sour, we should turn from it and choose another. Instead, disaster tends to bring an overwhelming desire, a painful desire, to make things right. Or no. It is not about making things right. It is about proving that we weren't wrong in the first place. That, though today may be destruction and fire, if we stay on the path long enough it will prove to lead us to paradise. Bill felt that now. If he turned away from his decision to murder his father, then what had his grandmother died for? What had Truce burned for? He continued to plan Crono's death, now with a fervor that had before eluded him. He had attempted stealth, now he would turn to subterfuge. His plans were laid instantaneously. The very night that Truce burned he helped Nadia and Ghetz escape. Then, when Crono sent Grecco after them, he countered by sending Thanojax. Thanojax was to keep Grecco from finding Nadia as long as he could. If that failed, he was to kill Grecco. With that situation under control, Bill turned his efforts to taking over the military. This time there would be no mistakes. This time he would march Crono in front of his own firing line. He would watch him die.

* * * *

The crossbow made a quiet sound. The bolt didn't have far to travel. It dissapeared through Bill's right side, just underneath the metallic plating that covered his chest and made up his arm. The man's entire body tensed and he began to shake. Nadia had seen men break before. She remembered the wounded at the bridge of Zenan, so long ago, and how the injured had run blindly, as if running would take them away from their pain. She recalled one man whose head had half been smashed. His scalp had hung loosely on the left side, with his brain filling it like a pustule sore where his skull had broken. He had run for a good three hundred meters before collapsing. It had taken him minutes to die.

Bill didn't run. He was shirtless. She could see the hole where the bolt had pierced him. The shaking continued, his stomache muscles tightening and loosening. A thick smell filled the room. His bowels had emptied. Bill sat down heavily on an upholstered chair near the closet and continued to shake.

"I wish you wouldn't have come here," he said, his voice catching. "You seeing me like this wounds my heart."

His red hair was slicked back into a mane that spread out behind him. With the hair pulled out of his face, he looked almost exactly like Crono. He had her dead husband's cupid features, with the small mouth and the prominent chin. His eyes were hers, though. They were so blue. She'd only ever seen eyes like that in the mirror. Something settled deep inside of her as her blue eyes met his. It was a hole that her insides were disappearing into.

"Nadia... mother..." Bill reached out a hand. For a long time it stretched towards her. She didn't know what to make of it. The voice was shaking. It was begging her. The man in the chair had become a boy. The hand alone was steady, though, and the pendant hanging from its fingers was her own. She took it and tied it around her neck, feeling the voice inside of her bubbling up past her desire to cry.

"My name is Marle," Nadia heard the voice saying. A moment later, she realized Bill had heard it, too. The voice was no longer inside of her. It was her own voice. She had no more need of Nadia. Marle turned away from Bill and left via the window. The roof tiles would be slippery with the recent rain. The word treacherous never crossed her mind.

Bill watched her go until his pain turned to a numbness and his eyes closed of their own accord. He would have smiled if he could have. He'd saved his mother. He'd changed the future, after all. All was good.


	20. Part xix

"Ah, gods, it's cold."

"So you're awake, then?"

"Where am I?"

"Somewhere you shouldn't be. And trespassing, incidentally."

"It's dark."

"That's because this place hasn't been born yet."

"I can't see you."

"Such are the properties of darkness."

"Show yourself!"

"Difficult to do in the darkness. You wouldn't happen to have brought a light, have you? One should never ride into the abyss without the ability to see what it is they are facing."

"When I left the castle, I didn't expect to end up... wherever I have landed."

"Cowardice, is what it comes down to. A denial to acknowledge that there could be more waiting for us on our journey than what we first expect."

"Do you call me a coward then? I am not the one that speaks riddles in the darkness. Ah, so you don't have an answer for that, do you? I call you coward, who refuses to show himsel- ah!"

"There, how's that? Hm. You seem startled."

"What is that? A street lamp?"

"It is the only thing left from what was once here. Or will be here. It's hard to tell from here what's happened already and what has yet to occur. It gets a little jumbled."

"What is this place?"

"It used to be a place where no time existed. Things in time which had lost their way found themselves here, a place where time itself had lost its way. When time found itself again, this place ceased to exist. You're the first person to get here since Gaspar left."

"What? But the king! Where is the king?"

"He hasn't come this way."

"Impossible! His tracks let straight into the archway! He must've come this way!"

"Archway? Are you saying you took a gate to get here?"

"A gate?"

"A time gate! It would look almost like nothing to your eyes! Maybe a shimmering in the night, or a cold spot. It was, wasn't it? If the gates are reappearing then that means the Time Devourer is waking up."

"The what?"

"The Time Devourer will come, and it'll bring HER with it. And when it gets here, I'll be waiting. Hm... so that bump I felt earlier must have been Crono, then."

"The king! You've seen the king?"

"No, I just felt his ripple as he passed through. I haven't seen him here until he interrupts my plans and fights the Time Devourer. After that, I don't know what happens to him. I'm not even sure when that takes place."

"So the king is coming here?"

"I don't think so."

"But you said..."

"I said time is confused here. There's no knowing when Crono arrives here or if he already has or even, really, if he ever will. You could be here an eternity waiting for the precise moment of his arrival and it could pass you by by being just a little too far to your left. And if he did arrive, there's no knowing at what moment in HIS life that would be. The Crono that comes here may not be the one you are looking for. Anyway, you're trespassing. You can't stay here. You're already starting to irritate me."

"If my lord is coming here, then it is my duty to wait for him, no matter the cost. If you think to stand in my way, then I shall have to use force."

"... Ghetz, was it?"

"What? My son?"

"A name you called out when you arrived here. Let me see now... hm... he does have a small impact on time somewhere down the road. But you... no, your role in history is not important. Do you know what that means, father of Ghetz?"

"What?"

"It means I can kill you without any fear of disrupting time. I could kill you a thousand times and fate wouldn't blink an eye."

"What are you? One of the Mystics?"

"Hardly. Those swine don't deserve the small bit of power they were so graciously given by the Zealians."

"Some kind of Guru, then, to know the future as you proclaim to?"

"The Gurus are dead, or will be. Like I said, it's hard to tell from here. Listen, father of Ghetz. Even if you could defeat me, which you can't, you don't have the power necessary to stay here. Time will draw you back into its folds."

"Alright, then place me where my lord is! I must reach the King!"

"It's not that simple. There is no time here. You've always been here, and you've never been here. Leaving this place may not put you back where you thought you were. You may arrive at the very moment Crono enters the time gate. Or you may arrive when he is first born. Where are you going?"

"Anywhere. If, as you say, I have no control over my destination then... well, I'm not one for waiting around. I'm too old for that. Don't have the time for it. If I'm going to end up somewhere, I'd at least like to arrive there promptly."

"Hm, so you think you'll just wander out of here by the power of your two feet?"

"I cannot stay here and it seems my horse did not arrive at the same place, or time, as you have put it. My two feet will have to do."

"You would wander alone in that darkness?"

"What other choice do I have?"

"I... wish you luck, then. What are you staring at?"

"Nothing. Just your voice was... different, that's all."

"No, I... I cannot involve myself any longer in the flow of time. It would be nice to see... but Schala, she... I cannot leave here, in any case."

"Who are you, then, if not Guru or Mystic? I could at least take a name back with me to the other world.""

"I'm not sure any more. I've been in this darkness for so long I often feel like a discarded memory, left here by someone who no longer wanted it."

"... well, then. I'll be taking my leave."

"Remember what I've said, father of Ghetz. You have no impact on time. You can't change anything. I don't know what you plan to do when you find your wayward king, but I do know you will fail."

"If that is my fate, then so be it. I can do naught but laugh."

"What did you just say?"

"Something I heard my lord say once. It stuck with me, like. I'll be on my way then."

"So the world does have a sense of humour, then. Good. I'd begun to think it a cold dead thing, hardly worth the effort I took to save it. I've been here so long, waiting for her that I'd forgotten why I did it. I guess I can wait here a little longer. If the gates are truly reappearing then you should have no trouble finding your way out, as long as you have the strength to keep moving. If you should see Crono again, tell him he's repeating... ah, but he's already gone."


	21. Part xx

_Crono._

No, he wasn't ready. He was still dreaming.

_Wake up Crono._

Dreaming of a time when he had been a king and leader of men, married to a beautiful queen.

_Please, Crono?_

He'd been a saviour, too.

_C'mon!_

But then something had happened.

_Crono!_

What was it that had happened?

_C'mon, get up!_

Crono stretched and yawned, but didn't open his eyes. Halfway through the yawn, he felt something cool press against his open lips and he smiled, kissing the finger that had been lain across them. The he rolled over, intending to go back to sleep and find his dream.

"No you don't," a familiar voice chided him. "If you're awake enough to kiss, you're awake enough to eat. I cooked breakfast for you."

Crono opened one eye and then the other, the one-step-at-a-time movements of a man who had overslept and was not yet fully distanced from the world of his dreams. Everything felt slightly surreal. Light was pouring into the room through open blinds. He had just time to vaguely register a blurry figure holding the blinds open before the glare began to hurt his eyes. Yet he kept his eyes opened and fixed on the figure by the window, willing her into focus, enjoying the effect as she became more defined. Slowly the lines around her sharpened into a middle aged woman, a woman who had lost some of her beauty but none of her vibrancy. She radiated youth and joyfulness. The last thing to come into focus was her soft smile, which warmed him more than ever the sunlight could.

Summer was here. Nadia was here. Life was good.

At breakfast, which consisted of a egg from their chickens and a cut of the toast that he had baked yesterday, Crono and Nadia talked over what chores there were to do. There weren't many. It was that peaceful time of the summer when all the planting had already been done but the harvest was not for another couple weeks. It was a time for relaxing and contemplation. It was also a time for love and closeness. The smell of Nadia filled his every breath. Each movement she took, whether it was to eat a bit of toast or push back a lock of fading golden hair, demanded his entire attention. As he did every morning, Crono reminisced on how lucky he was to have her as his wife. Fate had brought them together at the grand Millennial Fair. Fate and Crono's clumsiness. Nadia would still sometimes call her married life "one grand trip" in recognition of the way they met. Crono had been smitten with her both instantly and literally when she'd stumbled into him as he tripped over an untied shoelace on a set of stairs. The resulting tumble had been dangerous and painful but one look at her face and the only thing that he'd been able to feel was his beating heart. Her beauty and features had struck him as markers of nobility, which would've put her far out of his league as the jobless son of a poor single mother. Fortunately, though, she turned out to be the daughter of a local farmer who was only too glad to accept a strong-backed son into the family. When the old man, also a widower, had passed away Crono had inherited the farm. Now he lived a good, if difficult, existence. His mother he'd moved from the old house on the coast to one of the backrooms of the spacious farmhouse where she spent most of her time knitting clothing for the winter. He didn't ask this of her, but she insisted on making herself useful in some way and, as the knitting seemed to put her at ease, Crono didn't argue. Anyway, it was good for Nadia to have help with the baby while Crono was in the fields.

Crono paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Egg yolk dripped from its tines as his brow furrowed in thought. The baby... where was the baby? Some tidbit of important information was pushing its way to the surface of his mind, bringing a tide of unexpected anxiety with it. His first thought was to ask Nadia, but something stopped him. She didn't like to be disturbed with the child, he dimly recalled. That's why mother was helping. That's why mother kept the baby with her in the backroom.

"Mother's with the baby," he said out loud, wondering if that was quite right. Nadia, finishing her breakfast opposite him didn't give any sign she'd heard. "Yes," he said again. "In the backroom, with the baby." As he reaffirmed the statement the thought that had been trying to surface sunk again, appeased for the moment.

Crono refused to let the matter concern him. He finished his breakfast and left Nadia with the dishes while he went off into the fields to check on the crops. Though it was shaping up to be a good harvest many a farmer had lost their yield by being over confident. It was not in Crono's nature to be over confident. Hard work in the fields had taught him the value of measured cynicism. Checking the fields every day kept him constantly aware of the progress of his crop. Any issues and he would have them spotted and taken care of long before they became dire problems. Even though this close to harvest little beyond an act of the gods could change his yield, he didn't mind the extra work. Vigilance kept a mind sharp and a body active. When he'd first married Nadia he had been all youth and impatience, eager to finish his work as fast as possible and frustrated with the long year's wait to see the results. Nadia's father (William, the old man's name had been) had put that eagerness and energy to good use, having Crono do everything from milking the cows in the morning to tilling the fields in the afternoons and, finally, to collecting food and cooking supper at night. Along the way, he showed Crono the benefits of patience and of scrutiny.

"The future is in the details," the old man used to say. "If a man studies what's put in front of him for long enough, he'll figure out what's going to happen before time does." Here his voice would always drop to a whisper and he'd give Crono a wrinkled wink. "And if he takes long enough, the future comes anyway and he doesn't have to worry about it."

Thinking back on the old man's dry cackle and sage yet oddly homely advice brought a wave of sadness to Crono's heart. He had truly cared for the old man. Never having a father of his own, Crono had looked up to him as a sort of surrogate parent. He also suspected that the man had always hoped to have a son. That Nadia's mother had died in childbirth was not uncommon in the farmlands, so distant from the healers of the city, but it had affected the old man so much that he'd decided to never take wife again. Nadia had been his life after that, attested to by the happy smile he flashed every time she came sauntering across the fields. Yet Crono noticed that there was a special, conspiratorial, smile that he reserved for Crono, as if he shared with the boy secrets that Nadia would never know. Nadia brought the old man happiness. Crono brought him pride. Never had Crono felt the burden of responsibility the way he had on the day the old man had passed away. Nadia had cried for weeks afterwards and still would occasionally grow silent for hours at a time during the winter months, whose cold had ultimately claimed her father. The man had taught Crono much. Every successful harvest, Crono silently thanked him for helping him support his family with the knowledge he had passed on. He thanked him for the people that lived through each year because of that knowledge: himself, Nadia, mother... and the baby.

Standing amidst long stalks of what he knew would turn out to be a very sweet corn, Crono stopped for the second time that day, frozen once again by a sudden feeling of urgency. It was the baby again. There was something about the baby he was forgetting. A birthday, maybe? Crono was notoriously bad about such dates. His head was already overcrowded with details about the harvest. He considered their future more important than his past. Yet, Nadia insisted on acknowledging and celebrating his birthday. She would shoo him out of the house right after breakfast on the special day, usually sending him to the coast town with a list of goods to bring back. He'd never seen what happened in his absence, but he could imagine it. A kitchen filled with the smells of cooking flour and the sweet tang of sugar. A variety of mixing bowls. Nadia in an apron licking soft batter from her fingers. A mess of dirty dishes and utensils, sticky counters and floors. Whatever the process that Crono imagined, he never got to see any hint of it, only the results. He would walk into a sparkling clean kitchen in the evening. The only source of light would be the candles burning in a colossal cake. The cake was always chocolate and layered in three mighty stacks, the stacks stuck together with thick layers of fresh berry jam. The whole confection was completed by homemade butter frosting, spiced with lemon and fresh sugar cane. The thought made the inside of Crono's mouth burn with an imagined richness.

They lived hard lives out here, but Nadia made sure they found their pleasures. Of course she would be wanting to do something for the baby's birthday. He tried to recall how many harvests it had been since the birth. It was a casual thought at first, but as he realized that he could not bring a number to mind, it became more urgent. He couldn't remember ever having had a birthday for the baby before but surely it was older than a year? Actually, now that he thought about it, he couldn't even recall what the child looked like, though he thought it might be a boy...

At that moment, something crossed his perephial vision and he lost the thought. Instinctively glancing towards the movement he detected a large black beetle crawling up the corn stalk next to him, only a few inches from his face. He recoiled from the creature. It was the one thing which continued to plague him in the fields, the one thing he had never gotten used to. Insects to him were alien and invasive. Long legs emerging out of a giant shell-like body, eyes that didn't seem to see but always seemed to be regarding him. He hated the creatures. As he watched the large bug climb the stalk a monstrous and irrational loathing filled him. The loathing grew until suddenly he saw himself knocking the beetle from its perch and grinding it into the ground with his boot until it was nothing but a black spot upon the hard dirt. He spat at the spot.

"What good does all that armour do you, now?" he hissed, ignoring the cruel hatred in his voice. The thing had meant him harm, he was sure of it. And the black spot it left in his field... that was a bad omen, too, though he wasn't sure what doom it foretold.

The feeling stuck with him throughout the rest of the day and kept him in silent contemplation until dinner, a fabulous meal which consisted of rabbit and turnip stew spiced with herbs from a garden Nadia maintained at the front of the house. The rabbit had been a large buck and, as such, there was plenty of meat on its small bones. Glistening goblets of fat rose to the top of the boiling stew and the smell of cooking meat filled the farmhouse. The turnips, usually a fairly bland vegetable, took on all the gamey flavor of the rabbit, making them seem like large soft pieces of meat themselves. The meal was good enough to push all thoughts of dire insects out of his mind. Once dinner was completed, he let himself be pulled into Nadia's arms and the rest of the evening held only peace for him.

Later, Crono lay still on the bed, listening to Nadia's light breathing as she dozed next to him, one arm laid across his bare chest. He was thinking the idle thoughts that come before sleep; thoughts that meander through an epic journey of ideas and memories without transitions. Perhaps it was the warm air of the evening or the smell of the crop drifting in from the outside, but at some point he was brought back to a summer night long ago, when his mother had danced for him.

Crono had never known his father. Supposedly the man had been a soldier and had died in service to the king but these were just stories to Crono. The only picture of his father was in his mother's possession and she never looked at it. Crono had once seen the picture. He'd expected some grand epiphany to strike him when he saw it, but it was only a picture of a handsome looking man with a shock of bright red hair similar to his own. But there was no revelation, no surge of feeling. If there had been a father in his life, it was not this mysterious man whom Crono had no emotional investment in. Rather, it was the three suitors his mother kept. Crono remembered them well. Old Syrio, quick witted but slow in everything else; Hario the innkeeper and self-proclaimed chef, a broad chested man whose black bristly hair grew almost as thick as his puddings; and Chaspin, a singer and his mother's favorite. Long after Syrio had lost interest and Hario had left Truce for Medina, Chaspin remained. It was from him that Crono received much of his education for Chaspin was an amazing story teller. He believed the true joy of life was in the experiences one had and the ability to share those experiences. A consummate performer, Chaspin's stories were never just words. They were reenactments accompanied by gestures, movement, and sometimes even magic. At a part in the story where a prince (usually insinuated to be Chaspin) saved a princess (Chaspin would invariably give the role to Crono's mother), the storyteller might pull perfumed flowers from nowhere or release doves from his hands that would land gracefully around the loving couple. Music was a part of the show, too. Chaspin had a special box that would play all sorts of music. Lucca had tried to tell him once how the machine worked, telling him it had something to do with a needle vibrating over grooves made in a metal disc but Crono found her explanation bothersome. The trouble with Lucca was that she always wanted to take things apart and see how they worked. Crono thought it killed the mystery of things. Chaspin's music wasn't beautiful because it was scratchings on a metal disc. He couldn't explain why it was beautiful and he didn't care to. He was happy with it being what it was. He bet Lucca couldn't explain that beauty, or the cleverness of his dancing, or how Chaspin could get everyone to laugh at the same time at a joke. Her science and reasoning couldn't explain great journeys and heroes and villains, not the way Chaspin's stories could. Chaspin taught Crono the meaning of magic and he took to it much better than Lucca's science.

He also taught him the meaning of loss. The plague that struck Truce in the Winter of Crono's seventh year was later said to have come from a fungus that had grown on food shipped into the city from Choras. It was a small break out, quickly contained by the king's healers, but it left a swathe of destruction nonetheless. The weak it killed. The strong it maimed. Chaspin had been strong, but the aftermath of the disease robbed him of the feeling in his hands and feet and turned his once beautiful voice into a rasping horror. There were no more songs or stories. The doves and flowers were now just cleverly folded bits of paper that no longer flew or smelled sweet. Chaspin's smile vanished and never returned. Crono's mother did her best to care for him and keep him happy, but the singer had lost his passion for life. During a cool night in Summer he threw himself upon a table dagger of his own volition and was dead by the time Gina found him. Crono never actually saw his mother crying, but he could hear the sobs sometimes in the middle of the night and he would see the thin tracks the tears left in his mother's cheeks the next morning. Quietly, Gina buried Chaspin with his possessions, as they would've done for the heroes in his stories. The one thing she kept was his music box.

One night, Crono awoke to the sound of the music box playing a sad slow melody. Creeping downstairs from his room, he saw his mother in the living room below. The music box sat on the table next to a single slight candle and his mother was dancing to the music. Crono sat and watched her through the gap in the railing, his little hands wrapped tight around the railings. He hadn't known his mother knew how to dance. Watching her step gracefully through the empty living room was a different kind of magic than the boisterous shows Chaspin had put on. This was a personal magic. His mother was dancing out the story of her sadness and even without words, Crono understood every moment of it. It was a dance for herself, for her own woes, but it was also a dance for Crono, her only audience. From that moment, Crono felt that no other woman could ever mean as much to him as his mother. When the song was done, Gina closed the music box and smiled up at Crono. Coming up the steps, she took him back to bed and fell asleep next to him while he stared out at his wall, thinking now that other man could ever mean as much to his mother as he meant to her. He decided it was okay not to have a father. Maybe his mother decided the same thing. Gina never opened Chaspin's music box again and she never took another lover.

Until recently, a small voice whispered in Crono's head. He frowned in the darkness. Where had that thought come from? He was suddenly sure there had been another man and recently, too. Crono could almost see his face, a noble face but an older one, lined with greying hair and side whiskers. Was his mother seeing an older man? Crono recalled that he wore armour and then that was a captain in the King's guard. He could even see the knight's Castle in his mind, though it was hardly the joyful place of Chaspin's old tales. Instead it was a cold, hard, place filled with too many empty rooms and too many adults. No laughter of children filled its halls. The queen was a lonely, unhappy woman. Try as he could, Crono couldn't recall her face. Eventually he drifted off into a disquieted sleep, his mind filled with images of long dark halls and men with swords surrounding his mother, preparing to stab her to death while she sipped at wine. Crono tried to call out a warning but he was drowned out by the sound of a music box playing sadly somewhere in his mind.


	22. Part xxi

It was late in the night when he awoke. Crono wasn't sure at first what had disrupted his sleep. One moment he was lost in his dreams, the next his eyes were open and he was staring at a silvery sliver of moonlight on his wall. Then he heard the cry. It took him a moment to place it but quick enough he realized the baby was wailing from the back room.

"Nadia," he said softly. "Nadia, the baby's crying."

A second later he realized his mistake. Nadia didn't like to talk about the baby. Thankfully, she stayed asleep. Crono crawled out of bed as quietly and gently as he could and left the room. The hallway outside the room was dark and Crono had to feel his way down it with one hand against the wall. The baby continued to wail as he came closer. He knew that his mother, who slept with the child, would be already tending to it. Still, he decided he could lend a hand. After all, it was his child. Again Crono wondered how old the baby was and whether it was time to start showing him how to work the fields. That is, if it was a boy. He wished he could remember that, too.

As Crono came closer to the back room where his mother and the baby resided the pitch of the cry changed entirely. It grew lower and more plaintive. It no longer sounded exactly like a baby crying. It sounded more like a woman screaming. Crono quickened his pace. He reached the door to the baby's room and halted. A light was on in the room, he could see by the thin line of light that splayed across the wooden floor from underneath the door. Something was moving there, squeezing its way out from underneath the closed door. Crono looked closer and saw the large black beetle from the fields. Logically, Crono supposed it couldn't possibly be the same bug, but somehow he knew it was. Crono wanted to crush it again, but he was barefoot and he loathed to touch the beetle with his bare skin. Crono regarded the insect's struggle for a moment. Then the scream came again and Crono was moving for the door handle, opening it, and stepping past the beetle into the room.

The room was at once foreign and familiar. It was not part of the farmhouse, but Crono recognized it nonetheless. He couldn't recall when he'd been here last, but he knew it was a tower chamber. Night came through the one large window along with a hot summer breeze that did nothing to warm his suddenly clammy skin. The middle aged woman sitting in the chair he recognized as a midwife. In the bed... Crono had to lean over the midwife's shoulder to see the girl. Though it had been tied back away from her head, strands of her hair fell in golden lines across her strained face. She was screaming, but not in pain. It was a sorrowful, angry, cry of torment. Each scream led into another one with barely a pause for breath, as if she would never empty her lungs of the cries. The midwife was gathering something up in a bundle of blankets at the girl's groin, which Crono now saw was filled with blood along with the sheets underneath it. The mass of disfigured flesh inside the bundle looked little like a human baby, just like the woman on the bed with her screams and strained features little resembled the love of his life, Nadia. Yet inside the bundle was his child, born dead and disfigured.

Crono was running then, with Nadia's screams fading behind him. If only he could make it back to his bed, he thought, then maybe this nightmare would end. The farmhouse was dark and the hallway longer than he remembered, though, and he couldn't find the door back to his bedroom. Suddenly the screams grew louder again as if they were coming from right behind him. Crono tore open the first door he found, desperate to escape the screams. He rushed into a new chamber. It was a bedroom, but not the meager homely one of the farmhouse. This bedroom was grander, with a bed that could fit a whole family. Everything was touched with wealth, whether it be a golden side table set with a jewel-encrusted wine cup or a full standing mirror of gleaming silver. An old man was standing by the mirror when Crono came in. The man turned to face him, showing him a white beard beneath a drooping mustache and spectacled eyes. Melchior, Crono thought, without knowing where the name came from.

"My lord, I am sorry," Melchior said, his voice breaking on the words. "Your queen, Nadia... she will never bear children again. You mustn't blame yourself. The king doesn't blame you, son. And neither does Nadia."

Crono backed out of the room only to feel himself bump against something. He spun around to find himself behind a pillar in the castle's great hall. His body felt heavy and he looked down to see himself wearing a king's regal cloak. From the other side of the pillar, he heard voices and he peered out to listen. Two soldiers were having a conversation. Crono concentrated on their faces and the names came to him. The skinny one with the messy brown hair that hung in his eyes was Redmond. The other one with the harder features and the bright blue eyes, the one who was talking, that was James.

"I'm just wondering, is all," James was saying. "If the Queen can't make the King heirs, then the line is broken."

"The King could take a new wife," Redmond responded in his recognizably sonorous voice. "It's been known to happen before."

"Not like this. Remember that the King isn't of the Guardian line. He married into the family. The true blood of Gaurdia, that lies with the Queen. If she can't bear heirs, then the line is broken. Gaurdia is finished."

"What's your point?"

"Like I said, just wondering is all."

"Well, it doesn't seem a safe sort of thing to wonder about inside the castle walls. How about you do your wondering away from me. If they take off my head for treason they're likely to cut my hair and you know how I hate to have my hair cut."

Yes, that was right, Crono thought as the two laughed and walked away. Crono remembered this conversation. The kingdom had hated and distrusted him the minute he'd put that crown on. Why pretend to chide, Redmond? Crono thought. James is just wondering for all of you. He'd fixed these men, though. He'd sent them to Truce to oversee its traitorous inhabitants. Traitors watching traitors. Crono saw a sort of humour in that. One day he'd put them all to the sword. Someday soon.

Thinking of Truce brought more memories, each one wiping away the last in a blur of visions and sounds. He turned his head one direction and he was fighting Bill in the Choras ruins. He turned another and was watching Bill bow the knee to him, quietly swearing to serve him and to "make his kingdom the strongest in the land." Behind him there was a sound, it was Nadia's voice pleading with him to recall the troops from Truce and, beyond that, the sound of Sariah, his captain of the guard, mirroring her words, saying they were only making the rebellion gain support. Crono refused them both and waved away the sounds, wishing an end to this. Things were becoming entangled now. Nadia was dancing with him, but every time she opened her mouth, a scream came out. Sariah was trying to save him from a mob that roared louder than the evil that had once tried to destroy his future. Briefly he thought he saw Schala, being devoured by some dark beast, but that image was gone quickly, leaving him in almost total darkness. Only one light shone in the darkness, illuminating an old man sitting against a lamppost lost in time. He tipped his hat and called himself Crono's father.

"Well, what did you expect?" the old man asked incredulously at the look of surprise on Crono's face. "A woman?" Then he pulled out a music box and began to juggle a stillborn baby. Lucca appeared suddenly, approaching the both of them wearing a ridiculous cape several sizes too small for her and wielding the Masamune in one hand.

""My hopes and dreams and those of Robo are held within this sword," she said. "I must wield it. The sword leads me. That is my sacrifice." Then she giggled and stabbed herself through the throat. Instead of blood, wine came out and the old man got on his knees to lap it up off the cobblestones while Lucca laughed and adjusted her glasses.

Crono turned away from the display. Ahead of him he saw a door and made for it, willing it to stay in focus as people and places long ago visited shifted in and out of the periphery of his vision. It was a difficult test of his will, but he held the door stable long enough to reach it and wrench it open. He rushed into the lighted room beyond and found himself facing the body of his mother, dead upon the floor of his banquet hall. Vomit trailed down out of the corner of her mouth, leaving a purple and red wine stain on her neck and the edge of her white dress. Sariah bent over the body, sobbing.

The door closed behind Crono with an audible click as everything fell into place. He remembered now. His mother was dead. The traitors in Truce had poisoned her. Crono was going to make them pay for their crimes. He was going to... what was he going to do? With a frown, he realized he hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Melchior and Bill, his must trusted advisors, were in the room with him but they gave no advice. The captain of his guard called no soldiers. Nadia was nowhere to be seen. His subjects had failed him and his wife had abandoned him. Even his mother's corpse seemed to be taunting him, telling him how he'd failed to avenge her. To block out her dead stare, he shut his eyes...

... and felt Truce burning. The fire on his face was warm. The glow seeping into his closed eyes was the light of justice being done. The tension left him instantly. This was right. This was the way it would be. He had once controlled the power of this purging light, though he'd forgotten how good it felt. A comfortable throne and too much rich food had robbed him of the memories. Now he had found it again and nothing was going to take it away. He breathed a sigh of relief. Truce would burn, yes, by his will.

Yet, when he opened his eyes, it was not the purging of Truce he saw. He stood, not upon cobbled streets, but upon a wooden floor in an unfamiliar home. Light came in from the windows of the room, but it was just the setting sun. No fires burned here. He heard a cry and suddenly he realized there was a bed in the room. On it his wife and another man made love. The cry had been Nadia's and it was one of passion. As she gave another cry, the man moved and Crono saw his face. It took him a moment to recognize the captain's son, Ghetz; the man he had put in charge of Truce. Crono didn't think beyond recognizing the man. His hand was on his blade; his one thought was to slash at the young man's back until the skin had been stripped to the bone.

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself now," a strangely melodic voice said from somewhere behind him. Crono felt a tug on his body; then the room was receding and pain was shooting through his leg, the leg he now remembered injuring in a fall from his horse. An instant later, he was standing again amidst the broken fountains and chipped bell of Leene's Square, awkwardly placing his balance on his good leg. He turned around as quickly as he could to see the bard appraising him. Her green eyes were narrowed into a hard stare and her bright red lips tightened in a grimace of disgust. Crono took the look as a challenge and left a hand on his blade. When he had felt Truce burning and knew he was the cause, he had felt powerful. Now he wasn't so sure. He felt his injured leg and his lack of balance. He couldn't remember the last meal he had nor did he know how long he had spent in this strange other world. The bard had tricked him before; how was he to know what else she might be capable of? He felt a need to speak, to state some challenge to the bard, some assertion that he was still in control. When he did speak, though, what he said surprised him.

"Nadia," he said. "She so wanted to be a mother."

The bard looked away from him. When she spoke there was pity in her voice, but also disdain.

"You humans are so funny," she said. "You could have stayed in that reality for as long as you liked but you couldn't let go. Your mind kept searching for its pain."

"Where did you send me? Where was that home?"

"The farmhouse? I showed you how the world could've been."

"No," Crono said with a laugh, though there was no humour in his sharp bark. The farmhouse hadn't been what he'd meant. Though, now that she'd brought it up... "Nadia was never the daughter of a farmer."

The bard shrugged. "Nothing's perfect. I filled in the gaps with scenes from your memories and desires."

"You would trick me with illusions, then," there was more hope in his voice than Crono had meant there to be. If what he'd seen had just been an illusion, then his suspicions could be dismissed.

"I would only show you what's in your heart. I want you to know what it is you stand to lose."

"Bitch," he said, feeling his face turn hot with his anger. "You think in my heart I want Nadia to lay with another man? I have no time for your false dreams."

The bard gave him a hard look, as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh, but it wasn't all illusions," she said softly. "That last part didn't come from me. That was a glimpse of the future."

"What do you mean? What future? Explain yourself."

The bard's smile was a cruel sneer. "I thought you had no time for me."

"Don't play games with me. Tell me about the future!"

The bard giggled demurely, raising a hand coyly to cover her mouth. "Why should I? You'll get there soon enough."

The skin of Crono's knuckles broke across the bones of her face, leaving a smear of red on her alabaster skin. Crono hadn't known for sure what he would feel upon hitting her or whether his fist would even meet anything at all. It was satisfying to feel flesh under his hand. If she is made of flesh, he thought, then I can defeat her. A second later he winced in pain. In reaching out to strike the bard, he had leaned his weight upon his injured left leg. It gave out and he was forced to stagger backwards, groping for a seat on the stone bench that faced Nadia's Bell. He sat awkwardly and looked to the bard, who was standing with her head down, her hat covering her features. She was standing very straight and very still. Crono wished she would react. It would be easier to feel that he'd been right in hitting her if only she would attack him or at least berate him.

"I'll change the future," he prompted. The words sounded good to his ears. The words of a righteous man.

"You can't change this future, my lord," the bard said, so quietly that Crono had to strain to hear her. She smirked suddenly. Though most of her face was concealed by her wide hat, Crono could see the smiling red lips from beneath its brim. Her voice grew louder and defiant. "You already had your chance and you gave it up. You didn't even realize it, did you? The future is here, great king, and you're too blind to see it."

Crono's throat tightened. He felt a pressure in his head and saw red creeping into the corners of his vision. "You lie," he spat at the bard. "I have not yet lost her. I can still save her."

"The person that needs saving is you."

"You would threaten a king?" Crono roared. "You wish to do me harm?"

"I only wish to keep you where you can do no harm to others."

Crono stood, his pain forgotten in his anger. His hand went to Rainbow and in one motion it was drawn, sending a metallic ringing across the square as it scraped against the sides of its sheathe. He pointed the blade at the bard.

"Release me from this place," he commanded.

"I won't."

Crono strode towards her and rammed her in a body slam that threw her to the ground. He lowered his blade as she fell, opening his mouth to make another threat. But his voice caught in his throat. As she fell, the bard's feathered hat came off. Golden hair poured out from beneath it and then Nadia was looking up at him, tears in her blue eyes. In a moment, Crono realized he held the sharpest blade in the three kingdoms to the throat of the one thing left in the world that he loved. A shudder ran the length of Rainbow. With a sound like a thousand windows breaking at once, the blade shattered. Crono dropped the hilt and threw up his hands to cover his face where a hundred pinpricks of pain coursed across his skin and through his nerves. A second later he dropped his hands and stared at the world through a lake of red that dripped into his eyes and ran down his neck to pool beneath the clothing he still wore from the night's feasting. In front of him knelt a vision of horror. Nadia's hands were reaching out as she implored him between sobs to help her. Her palms glistened. Where her eyes had once been were pools of red and black shining with more of the sharp slivers of rainbow shell and folded steel. She cried tears of blood as she got to her feet and lurched at him.

Crono screamed. He was still screaming as he reached for Masamune on his back. Crono had thought he'd known fear in his life, but now he realized he never truly had understood the meaning of the emotion. Now he realized he hadn't been afraid when he'd climbed The Magus' tower of death traps and monsters. He hadn't been afraid when fighting the Reptites in their castle of stone and bone. He had known only slight trepidation when faced with his own death at the infinite maw of Lavos. It wasn't until now, as he pulled the Masamune free from its scabbard, that fear moved his arm; not until now that fear made him strike the blade into Nadia's collarbone, shattering it in a spray of blood and gristle. With a scream to match his own, Nadia collapsed into a heap on the ground, her face pointed towards the perpetually dying sun of this place. Then she began to change. Her fine features lengthened and elongated. Her beautiful blonde hair turned coarse and a sickly green and began to sprout over her face and arms. The shards of rainbow shell pushed themselves out of the skin and fell tinkling to the ground. Within seconds, Nadia no longer lay before him. Only the bloody wound where Masamune had struck and the look of pain on her face remained the same. Otherwise, it was a monster with a face like a fox dressed in the gaudy robes of the bard it had impersonated. With a gasping cough that sent a trickle of blood down its chin, the creature spoke. Its voice was just as melodic as before.

"Brothers, why did you let him bring the Dream Sword here?"

As she spoke, Crono realized he knew this creature. "You're Melchior's little dream stooge," he said. "The imp sister. Doreen, I think your name was." He chuckled with a spasm of his body. He was shaking uncontrollably. "So Melchior was against me, too?"

"Leave the blade here. Do not take it back into the world, I beg you."

"I think not. I'm short a blade these days." Ahead of him, Crono heard a sound like the tearing of a sheet of paper. Looking up, he saw a shimmering in the air beyond the square, the sure sign of a gate. He knew where this one led. He could already smell the flames of the future. In a distant corner of his mind he could tell that blood ran openly from the wounds in his face and that his leg was barely supporting his weight, but he limped towards the gate all the same. He had to escape this place of lies. In his mind ran the images of those who had betrayed him in his life. His father had died before Crono could ever get a chance to know him. Chaspin had selfishly taken his own life never thinking it was worth something to those around him. Lucca had abandoned him to her machines and her orphans. His kingdom had plotted rebellion and killed his mother. Melchior had sent his imp to trap him in a world of nightmares and false dreams. Now even the future threatened to take away Nadia from him. He wondered if she would enjoy lying with a man like Ghetz. He decided he would never give her the choice. From now on he wasn't going to let anyone betray him ever again.

"Stop, Crono!" Doreen called from behind him, her voice a wail of desperation. "You still have the chance to turn back! Do not go through the gate!"

Crono turned with a wide crazed smile on his face. He said nothing. He spent a moment watching her blood pool in the cracks of the ancient stones of Leene's square. His only coherent thought was that the blood would probably wash some of the dirt and grime of the stones. Then he turned and strode into the shimmering gate and was gone.

Doreen sobbed on the ground. "You could've saved your mother," she cried. "Time takes you where you want to go, Crono. In your heart, revenge was more important to you than the life of your mother."

The sky turned dark around her. The sun was finally setting on this timeless place.


	23. Part xxii

Sariah emerged from darkness into light. He had ridden after the king in the dead of night, so the sudden change shocked him. His first thought was that the mysterious voice occupying that other dimension had been correct; he had somehow become lost in time and had now entered some foreign land in the far past. But after a moment, his eyes adjusted to the change and he saw that he was standing at the edge of a crowd. Every third person carried a lit torch, accounting for the brightness which had stunned him. It was an odd group of people. Though it was a Winter's night, most were dressed in thin cloth. Some even wore short sleeved tunics and many were shivering. Men and women alike made up the crowd, and even a few who looked to be no older than teenagers. All were staring hard at a platform that looked recently erected. Three men stood upon it.

Sariah stared closer at the platform and felt a brief shiver. It was a gallows and only one man stood upon it. The other two hung from its fresh timbers, the wood underneath them dark where their bowels had emptied themselves. Sariah looked closer and his shiver turned to an icy chill over his heart as he recognized the bodies. Pierre had been a hero in his time and even as a portly old man had been as eloquent as any bard. Now his fat face had turned purple as he died, and his white mustache was covered with snot breathed out during his struggle to free himself from the rope. Next to him hung young Redmond, his brown hair falling in his face as it had done when he lived, obscuring whatever mask of terror death had left on him. Next to Redmond a third rope was looped and waiting to make the duo a trio, though who was meant to complete it, Sariah did not know. Underneath this rope strode a brown-haired man wearing fine clothes and a white cape. He ignored the grisly bodies hanging above him, focusing all his attention at the mob that had gathered at the gallows, shouting at them in a high, clear, voice. At first Sariah thought that he was under persecution, but then he heard the words the man was saying:

"Now is the time to strike! This king cares naught for you or your town! He cares only for the gold that you work hard to put in your pocket so that your children may be well fed! He doesn't care if they are well fed, he only cares to stock his own table!"

The crowd roared their agreement with that. The man raised his voice to be heard over them.

""Our town has been under the martial law of the King for an entire season now and for what? For asking him to leave us enough coin to feed ourselves. The men we sent to the feast said there was enough food there to feed our town for a month! The King feasts on our coin!"

The response was so loud and vicious that Sariah was suddenly grateful he had ridden out without armour. It would've immediately marked him as a member of the King's guard and the mob, in their fervor, would surely have lost no time in tearing him apart. Sariah drew in closer to the mob, mingling with them and trying to get a better sense of the situation. The man on the platform continued:

"The King has placed soldiers in his hometown because he doesn't trust us. He grew up here but closer to his heart is Poore, with all its money and new technology. What use does the King have for a simple coast village? He'll ask us for more and more and we don't give it, he'll burn us to the ground and sell our land as summer homes to the Poorians!"

"We'll burn him first!" a voice called from out of the mob. Sariah looked around, but it could have been anyone. He didn't see a single face that wasn't heavy with anger. Except for one: a blonde-haired man near the front. The man spoke up nervously, straining his voice to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

"Samdel, we shouldn't do this," the youth said. "This is treason. The King has never done us harm. If we wait the season out, we can send emissaries to the castle. We can work things out peacefully."

The ones near the man who heard him speak got quiet and Sariah could feel the tension in the air. Would this mob stoop to killing one of their own, Sariah wondered? But no, they seemed almost solemn as the man called Samdel looked down upon him with a frown of pity from his high place on the gallows.

"Harm has been done, Fritz," he said. He spoke to Fritz but his words were for the entire mob. "My family has lost their land. Who shall be next? Already the city suffers. The goods we received from the merchant ships, goods that usually feed and clothe us, were sent to the castle to be given to the people of Poore. I have it on the best authority. Our friend in the castle oversaw the transfer himself. If the King means us no harm, then why does he starve us and leave us to face the cold of Winter in rags?"

Sariah was forced to note again the condition of most of the crowd's clothing, though Samdel himself he saw wore a fine woolen shirt and cloak. The mob didn't seem to notice, though. They began roaring its approval and waving their torches madly. In the press, Sariah lost sight of Fritz. Samdel raised his hands for silence and presently got it. Then he spoke again:

"I am no tyrant, friends. If a man among you does not think that my words carry truth, then speak now. If there is anyone who feels that the King will give you more justice than I will, then leave this group in peace and know that no harm will befall you."

Samdel waited, but the silence held. Sariah's thought of calling out a challenge. Almost immediately he suppressed the thought. He was in no position to fight; not while he was in the middle of the mob. Still, his sword hand twitched as he considered the treason being committed in front of him and the words pressed against his closed lips. In another moment, though, Samdel spoke again and the opportunity passed.

"There will be no burning tonight, my friends," the man said. "We are not the King. We do not bring justice by fire and force. We are merchants and tradesmen. Our methods are those of merchants and tradesman. Right now, our friend at the castle has the queen held as a hostage. She is our merchandise. We shall trade her for peace!"

With those words, Sariah pushed away the sounds of the roaring crowd and tried to think from the perspective of the man he meant to kill. Samdel was facing a crowd of torches. They cast light over the entire area, but they also served to blind Samdel. From a top the platform, it would be hard to make out much except a flare of light that marked his audience. He wouldn't see Sariah until he'd gotten to the front of the crowd. Then he might glance at him, might even realize he was an unfamiliar face, though it was unlikely. It wouldn't matter. Sariah would have his blade ready. Samdel was close to the edge of the platform and Sariah had been blessed with the gift of height and reach. Samdel would lose a leg before he could move away. Then the crowd would become enraged and fall upon Sariah. He would hang next to Redmond and Pierre.

Alright, then, he would have to gain the upper ground of the platform before he struck. He could defend himself from the crowd's anger from there. But how to get there before Samdel called the crowd down on him? Sariah looked at the platform. It was an extremely rudimentary structure. A couple of fresh-cut logs presented the only stairs. Sariah would be half way up before the crowd dragged him down again. Unless they had some barrier blocking them. Sariah looked again at the log stairs. It was dead wood and surrounded by dry grass. The rains had come for a week, though Sariah could smell a gathering storm in the air. Fire, then, would be his barrier. It would buy him time, enough time to get on the platform with Samdel. The man wore a sword. Would he try to fight? He hoped the man turned and ran. If he did that, Sariah knew he could cut him down. If not... Sariah looked at his opponent again. His sword wasn't drawn. He'd have to draw it to fight and Sariah would already be striking. Aim it high, then; a swing from the left side. Samdel would move quickly to block it and it would throw off his balance. Drop the next blow lower, that would leave his face exposed. Ram an elbow into it, then snap the blade into a downswing. The aim wouldn't be to strike him, not yet. Sariah wanted him to block the blow, but just a little late, only able to get his sword to chest height and not above his head. Then Sariah's blade would be pointed straight at his neck and all he would have to do would be drive it forward.

Then what? He would have the higher ground. The mob would try to take it. He glanced around, estimating the size of the crowd. He would have to kill three of them, he decided, before they would give back. He wasn't proud enough to think for an instant that he could hold back the entire mob by himself, but neither was he green enough to forget that these were no seasoned warriors. Thinning their ranks would give them pause. In that pause, their thoughts would turn to their mortality, to their families, to everything they stood to lose in an open rebellion; to everything they stood to lose to Sariah's blade. That would be the moment to push the advantage. Steal Samdel's own stage and talk reason instead of war. If they had the King and Queen hostage, then find out where. It was a messy business and would surely get messier by the end, but in this moment a few deaths could buy the lives of many.

He didn't like the thought, but then he remembered Gina, choking on her own vomit on the floor of the banquet room. He felt his breath slow and his nerves relax. Her death would steel him for the task ahead. He gripped the bronze handle of his blade once, as if to assure himself that it was there, and then he strode forward through the crowd. At fifteen feet from the podium, Samdel's words became a blur of noise. Sariah wasn't listening anymore; he was watching the mob, picking his target. At ten feet he had him: a brown haired man with a pot-belly and a heavy mustache. At five feet, Samdel reached out for the man and grabbed the torch he was carrying. It was slick with the sweat of the man's hand, sliding into Sariah's gasp easily. The man had not even yelled in alarm before Sariah was thrusting the torch into the dry brush at the foot of the podium and leaping onto it as the flames rose behind him. Then his blade was in his hand and he was facing the rebel leader.

Samdel hissed like a cornered cat as Sariah came at him. He fumbled madly with his sheath, pulling free his sword just in time to awkwardly block the knight's blow. Sariah saw pain on the man's face: he had had to move quickly to block the blow and hadn't been prepared for the shock of it running up his arm. Sariah dropped his blade and went for the legs. Samdel blocked this one just barely. He was completely off balance, now, unable to dodge Sariah's elbow as it crashed into his face. Sariah's next attack came immediately after, before Samdel could recover. Samdel blocked it, but just late enough that the blade pointed directly at his neck. Sariah saw the fear in Samdel's eyes. Then, just as suddenly, Sariah saw that fear vanish as something grabbed him from behind. Sariah was being lifted away from the rebel leader, lifted by something with incredible strength. He didn't have time to come up with a plan before the world turned over on itself and his head crashed onto the wood of the podium. He felt his neck twist and there was a moment of sharp pain which sunk into his gut and made him feel like he was going to be sick. Then there was just the memory of pain and a strange numbness throughout his body. His legs toppled over his head as he rolled away from the man who had lifted him. The man was huge and bent over backwards in a strange position. Looking at him, Sariah realized he must have lifted him up and dropped him over his head. Sariah wondered at the strength needed for such an act until he saw the mass of muscles that made up the man's body. Shirtless, the muscles tightened and contracted visibly as the man seemingly willed himself into a standing position, his raven black hair cascading down over his shoulders as he rose. He didn't even glance back to see if Sariah was getting up to face him. He ignored the knight completely, instead moving over to lean casually against one of the fresh timber posts and look out at nothing above the heads of the crowd.

Samdel was coming towards Sariah. The knight tried to reach for his blade, but he couldn't move his body. His eyes seemed to be the only things still capable of movement and he kept them trained on the rebel leader as he approached and bent down to examine the knight with a grimace.

"I do believe you've broken the man's back, Grecco," Samdel said, prodding Sariah in the chest with his riding boots. Sariah didn't feel it. "Bastard meant to kill me."

Grecco didn't answer.

"Gregoire, get the rope ready," Samdel added as another man climbed onto the podium behind him. The voice seemed strangely distant and had an odd sound to it, like it was coming out of a cave. "We've another one to add to our collection. Grecco, put out the fire and calm the crowd. You do wonders for people's nerves."

Sariah watched the man called Gregoire approach him. He recognized him at once as the previous rebel leader, the one who had knocked the king from his horse at Winter's start. He saw the man move behind him and then his vision was changing. He was rising, he realized; being lifted without feeling a thing. His head sagged without his control and his world became the view of his legs being dragged limply along the wood of the podium. A part of him was screaming that he should be panicking, but all he could think was that at least he wouldn't feel the rope.

Then a new voice cut through the night air:

"What exactly are you doing to my Knight's Captain?"


	24. Part xxiii

Of everything that happened that night, Samdel would remember most the sound. In later years, he couldn't quite place what the sound had signified, but it was there in his memory above all else. He couldn't recall how the wet grass had smelled, or the taste of flesh on his tongue as the people of Truce caught fire and burned. He could only describe Crono like a man describes a city he once saw. The memory was a photograph in his mind that he could take out and look at, pointing out the details but barely feeling anything for them. The sound... that was different. The sound was alive. To this day, the crash of thunder brought him back to that moment when the rains began at last to fall upon the sizzling torches of the mob.

Crono stood in the middle of the mob, ignoring both the ever-nearer flashes of lightning and the downpour that plastered his red hair to his forehead. No movement had betrayed his entrance into the scene. One moment the crowd was packed tightly together, screaming for the blood of the Knight's Captain who had dared attack their leader; in the next moment the screams had faded away into the uncertain hush of fifty people holding their breath. Fear and confusion flowed off of them, a feeling as palpable as the heat of the fires they held.

The King wore clothes that might have once been regal. However, mud and what looked suspiciously like blood spread a splattered course across the finery. The spread shone darkly in the reflection of the torch light. The flickering lights added a mad look to his face, creating dancing shadows that deepened his eyes and widened the sneer of contempt on his lips as he looked around at the townsfolk. Samdel had gathered them to march on the castle, but it felt like the castle had come to them instead and he wondered that he had proposed an attack on the home, rather than on the man. This was the heart of Guardia standing in front of them and he was a much more insurmountable force than simple brick and stone. Brick and stone did not fight back.

The King had arrived... though Samdel wished he looked the part more. He looked less a ruler and more a warrior, which made him infinitely more threatening to attack. The crowd drew away from him as if he were a wild animal, released into their midst, which might strike at any moment. The general step back seemed to create an empty barrier around Crono, a space that advanced as he did and which made Samdel back up a pace as Crono approached the platform.

Crono repeated his question: "What are you doing to my Knight's Captain?"

"We're hanging him."

Sounds again. The words that vibrated up his body with a power greater than the thunder. The words that formed in his mind, a response that was ridiculing in its simplicity... but it wasn't his voice that spoke them. Next to him, Samdel's step-brother Gregoire moved forward on the platform. It took Samdel a moment to guess what his brother was about to do: a moment too long.

"We'll hang you, next," his step-brother continued, his voice betraying him and cracking on the words. "You asked me once whether I was prepared to give my life in order to take the life of another. I haven't forgotten." Gregoire pulled free, of all things, a dagger from a hip sheathe. Samdel wanted to slap him, to ask him whether he was thinking at all, but he couldn't move. He realized he was about to see his step-brother die. For the briefest of moments, Samdel felt the heavy wheels of Fate and realized that he could do nothing to turn them. It was a feeling, more than anything, of exhaustion.

The challenge hung in the air while Crono turned his attention from Samdel to Gregoire. He looked the man over with an irritated look of scrutinization on his face. A second's worth of tense silence, then he sighed and ran a hand through his mane of fiery red hair. One more piercing stare, then the hand dropped lazily to his side and he shrugged his shoulders, giving a sloppy shake of his head that made him seem drunk.

"Nope," he said. "I don't remember you."

With that, Crono extended one hand towards the gallows. Gregoire didn't quite explode. He combusted, fire bursting out of his mouth and eyes along with a hollow cry that was more of a groan than a scream. The dagger fell to the platform and sizzled and smoked on the wet woods. As Gregoire's arms and legs also caught flame, he let out another wailing groan and leapt from the platform, landing on the dead grass that was still smoldering from the Knight Captain's torch. Samdel had a brief glimpse of his step-brother's flailing form caught inside a ball of fire before Gregoire took off running through the crowd towards the King. Citizens shrieked and dodged out of the way of his charge, but Crono stood still with the sneer still plastered on his face. At the last moment, he reached out with both arms; reached into the fire and caught Gregoire by the head. Blue and yellow sparks ran up and down the King's muscular arms and what was left of Gregoire began to fall apart, the still flaming limbs coming loose from the man's body and flopping down into the grasses, where the cool rain caused them to curl in on themselves. Soon, there was nothing left of Gregoire but ash. The King lowered his arms, still sparking with electricity, and turned his eyes once again towards the gallows.

Samdel ran. The night was dark outside of the circle of torches, leaving his memory blank of images. He would never know where he ran to or whether Crono gave chase. Only the sounds seemed clear to him: people and horses screaming in a mingling cacophony, houses creaking as they collapsed, thunder rumbling, leaves crunching under his feet as he left the roads of Truce behind and entered the wilderness. It was the sound that hit him, not the branch. The sound enveloped him like a blanket, echoing in his ears long after he had fallen to the muddied ground. In his dark dream, the sounds told a story. His speech led to the cries of the mob which led to the sound of the Knight Captain's snapping spine which led to the King's question which led to Gregoire's challenge which led to thunder. The images flowed in and out of focus but the sounds were constant. As they played over and over, the last thing he remembered thinking was that he missed silence.


	25. Part xxiv

All around him, people were dying. For the first time in years, Crono felt like things made sense. It was as if he had been forced, since becoming ruler of Guardia, to stare out of the periphery of his vision; as if the path directly in front of him had been blocked by a blind spot which he could not see around, not matter how he moved his head. Now that path was clear. He felt, finally, that he understood what ruling was about. Ruling wasn't a matter of complicated management and maneuvering through politics. It was a matter of power and of will. Crono would no longer see Guardia prosper by sitting back and waiting for it to happen. He would make it happen. He would make the future happen now. Ruling was an active duty, not a passive one. Like saving the world, like defeating evil, ruling was simply something you did. It didn't require all the thought that he'd been trying to put into it. It wasn't an impossible task. It was something he could do. He was capable of ruling. The thought was such a relief that he felt like crying. He couldn't wait to share with Nadia his revelation.

Compared to his euphoria, the panic around him was only dimly disconcerting. "Why does it bother you?" he heard himself ask. "I don't know," he replied. "Is it the people that you've killed?" he asked out loud. Crono looked around, blinking in the heavy rain. He saw the sputtering torches and the crude weapons discarded in the burning grass. Many of the weapons were makeshift, pitch-forks and other farming utensils, but here and there he saw the sharpened edge of a sword shimmering in the orange and red light. He looked up from the ground and saw the gallows that had been erected, from whose timbers they had said he would hang... from whose timbers hung the bodies of two of his knights. His knight captain lay prone upon the stage as the fires began to heat the wood. Smoke rose from beneath the captain's body, but the man did not move.

"No, I don't think it has anything to do with the people," Crono replied. He caught sight of a trio of peasants hovering nearby, watching him warily. He felt a crackle of energy run up his spine and then he heard the screams again.

Crono didn't think of the screams as coming from citizens of Guardia. He thought of them as the cries of monsters; monsters come to disrupt the peace of the nation that had been given over to his protection. Similarly, he didn't think of the city as his hometown. Some memories came to him unbidden... memories of running through its streets as a child, the white Truce Gulls sounding their piercing whistles in the blue skies above... memories of riding the ferry and the ferrymaster letting him take the wheel for a few minutes as they passed the curve in the coast from around which Poore would appear. "It's coming to greet us," the ferrymaster would say, and wink at him. Crono thought, too, of the Millennial Fair and the crisp sound of Leene's bell wafting across the marbled stones of the fairgrounds. He felt again the impact that knocked the wind from his lungs as a young girl careened into him. But even this memory did little to stir his emotions. The memories were passing thoughts and nothing more. This was the city that had taken his mother from him. That was the memory which stuck in his mind, fresh and boiling hot.

A few of the rebellious monsters fled from the flames towards Crono. He drew Masamune and cut into them, noting with satisfaction that the blade, despite its years of disuse, was still suitably sharp. Yet, as the monsters fell, he again felt a quiver of disturbance. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" he asked out loud. "Yes," he replied. "But I'll be damned if I know what it is." Crono turned to ask Lucca or Nadia whether they felt it, too. For the briefest of moments he thought he saw them, Nadia with her bow and Lucca carrying one of her unique weapons, the guns that always seemed about to explode (and sometimes did). Lucca was wearing her bizarre helmet that she claimed increased her ability to fight. Crono had once put on the helmet himself, but all it increased was his claustrophobia. For a moment, Crono saw her as she had once been, then the vision passed in a swirl of smoke and a flash of flame and he was disoriented. The flames and the smell of death blended together with his past so strongly that he had to make an effort to remember what time he was in. Lucca, he remembered now, was at her orphanage, probably sitting amidst her piles of junk busily inventing the accidental end of the world. Nadia was at the castle, miles away through the forest, though in his heart she felt much further away than that. They had been miles away in the same room for months. With that thought, Crono finally remembered where he was. It was the future, and he was alone.

He wasn't quite where he had started, though. The gallows were gone and red-brick buildings loomed over him. Beneath his boots was a well-paved street, its grey stones running with the dirty red colour of blood that's been diluted by the rain. Most of the blood was pooling at his feet and, with surprise, Crono realized he was bleeding heavily. His shoulder ached awfully every time he moved. Reaching up to gingerly feel for a wound, his hand found the pommel of a dagger. He tried tugging at it and winced as pain shot through him so strongly that he almost fell over. The muscle and bone had closed around the blade. Crono decided to leave it where it was for the time being, though even moving his head caused him discomfort. He was losing blood from a lot of open cuts. That dagger was plugging a significant hole in his body, keeping a good amount of his blood inside of him where it could continue to pump through his heart and provide his muscles with the power to grip a sword and swing it. He needed that right now, for the discomfort he had felt back in the clearing had grown. He thought he recognized the feeling now, as one begins to remember things about an old friend they haven't seen in some time. It was a warning of danger. Something here exuded a power strong enough to kill him. The thought concerned him.

Whatever it was hadn't attacked him yet, of that he felt sure. What wounds he had had been taken in battle with the peasants, merchants and traders, that now were strewn about him in crumpled heaps. They must have mobbed him... he couldn't recall fighting them off. He let his gaze rest for a minute on one of the corpses, catching a glimpse of blond hair. For a moment he felt like he was on the edge of a precipice and was being pushed towards it by unseen, forceful, hands. There was something to that blond hair and the young face it framed, something that he felt he ought to recall; something he was about to recall. Before the feeling could consume him, he forced himself to look away.

And found himself looking into the darkest pair of eyes he had ever encountered.


	26. Part xxv

The eyes were what he saw first. The rest of the man seemed to grow out of them: a thick forehead rimmed with raven-black hair, curved thin lips, a ghostly pale barrel chest whose red nipples stood out in stark contrast to the dark tattoo lines which engraved it with a circle wreathed with black flame. He didn't seem to mind the cold rain. As the man ran a hand through his wet hair, Crono saw rippling muscles tighten and loosen all along his arm, reminding Crono of the time he had observed one of Lucca's lifting machines at work. Here was a system of pulleys and counter weights meant for strength and endurance. This was a body at its peak of perfection. Crono experienced a stab of jealousy, noticing how out of breath he was and how thick his middle felt. The dagger in his shoulder seemed a sickeningly telling ornament. It spoke of weakness, that he'd slowed down. As if sensing his thoughts, the man's eyes shot towards the dagger. He raised a hand in a lazy indication of the wound.

"Looks painful," he said in a non-chalant voice that rumbled down the street towards Crono. When Crono didn't answer, the man went on. "It's been an interesting evening. Many spirits in the air tonight. This place will surely become a city of ghosts."

"What's your name?" Unsure of how to respond to this short soliloquy, Crono asked the first thing that came to his mind.

The man hesitated a moment before responding. "Some have called me Greco."

Crono remembered now where he'd felt this disturbing presence. "You were on the gallows with the others," he said. "But you don't look Trucian."

"You speak truth. I don't hail from these lands."

"Where do you hail from?"

"That is a long story. I have traveled much and wandered more and only occasionally stopped long enough to be remembered." He halted, as if thinking over what he had said, then he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "You could say that I was from Choras and not be too wrong."

For some reason, Crono thought of asking him if he knew Bill, but the thought was so tangential that he discarded it. "Choras is a den for murderers and thieves," he said instead. "No offense meant."

"One can hardly expect to take offense at the truth."

"I saw you on the gallows with the others," Crono said again, eager to speed the conversation to its end. "Why didn't you come at me like the others?"

"It wasn't time, yet. I wanted to see what you would do first."

"Satisfied, then?"

"Yes."

There was a few seconds of awkward silence. Crono shuffled his feet, acutely aware of how heavy the Masamune felt in his hands and how badly his shoulder ached. The wound ached with an intensity that went beyond pain; it distracted and demanded all of his attention. If this man was going to attack him, he'd rather it be sooner than later. What would this Greco want from him and how best to figure out what that was? He tried to think like Nadia would have, but it hurt his head and his wound ached all the harder. He went for a more direct approach, instead.

"Are you planning on killing me?" Crono asked.

"When your long journey  
reaches its end...  
the heavy burden that  
rests upon your shoulders  
will be lifted at last."

Greco recited the lines as if they were poetry. "I've been waiting for someone to teach me the meaning of those words," the large man said, after a pause. "Are you the one to do it?"

Crono laughed, the sound echoing flatly off of the buildings around him. He had never been one for these dramatic speeches and besides... "You aren't serious," Crono said, more of a statement than a question. "I've got a swor-"

Grecco's fist was underneath his nose before he could finish speaking. Crono's face went numb and he knew dimly that his nose had been broken. His head snapped back with the impact, exposing his neck. A moment later, he felt a crushing pain as the side of Grecco's hand slammed into his throat. From experience, Crono knew to let the force of the blow knock him off of his feet. It was the only thing that kept his larynx from being crushed.

He fell backward, bloody water spraying in every direction as he crashed to the ground. He landed on his left shoulder, the one with the dagger sticking from it. The resulting jolt of pain pushed the contents of his stomache out onto the cold pavement. He found himself staring at the half-digested remains of a plate of turkey, one of the main dishes of the feast. It felt like ages ago that he'd eaten it. The smell of bile threatened to make him sick again and he swiftly turned his head to the other side.

The view wasn't much better. He was staring into the dead face of the blonde man whose visage had begun to consume him with some forgotten memory. From some cold, logical, place in his mind Crono conjured up the man's name. This was Fritz. This was someone he had once saved from a torturous death at the hands of a false chancellor. Crono found himself mourning the memory more than the man. He remembered how young he had been back then. Even after having spent three nights in a jail cell, he had still been able to escape the towers of Guardia Castle. Those same towers he had later had converted into semi-luxurious bedrooms for the castle servants and their families. It had pleased him, at the time, to think that a wife and husband could be making love in the same place where he had once dreaded his impending execution. He wondered now why he had wasted the money on the conversion. Especially when those dungeons could have soon been so useful.

Despite having been taken by surprise and feeling like his throat had been ripped out, Crono was far from beaten. Every muscle in his body was tensed, waiting for Grecco to try and finish him off. The minute the larger man came close, Crono would be on his feet, the Masamune swinging towards his foe's neck with enough force to sever the head from the body and shut those dark eyes forever. But the follow up attack didn't come. Crono lifted his head a bit and saw, to his confusion, that Grecco was casually leaning against a doorway a healthy twenty feet away. The man seemed to blend into the shadows. Crono would've had a hard time spotting him except that something about the man drew his eye inexorably to where he was. There was an aura about Grecco that he'd never felt before, not even when dealing with the likes of Janus and the other Zealians. They had radiated an undeniable power, true, but Grecco emanated something else; a power that was more primal. The rain still fell, feeling ice-cold on Crono's exposed face, but Grecco barely seemed to notice it. The tattoo on his bare chest shimmered with the wet touch of the rain and his sides rose evenly with each breath he took. He wasn't doing anything except watching Crono out of those dark pools that passed for eyes.

Crono had no illusions about his own abilities. While five years of sitting on a throne had definitely left it's mark on him, he was still the man who had saved his future, defeating a near-omnipotent being in order to do so. In the last few months he had fought every day with Bill, urging the man to never hold back. He'd even had Bill switch to using a sharpened blade during their practice sessions, though he would never tell Nadia this. He was slower, yes, then he had been five years ago, but his arms had lost none of their strength nor his will any of its vigor. He had only moments ago channeled enough power to lay waste to a street's worth of attackers. Though he did not remember doing the deed, he sensed that same power still coursing through him. Yet, despite all of this, he had just been knocked halfway senseless by an unarmed opponent without a shirt. That made him cautious.

Determined not to show his pain, Crono forced himself to his feet. He rose slowly, but deliberately; not wincing when he put his weight on his bad leg and forcing his numb hands to lift the Masamune so that it didn't scrape the ground as he stood. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up and drew the dagger from his shoulder. Grecco didn't move as Crono flipped the dagger around and whipped it forward, sending it flying like a dart towards the larger man's exposed chest. Without waiting to see whether the dagger hit, Crono started to run towards the doorway where his opponent stood. He had the Masamune hoisted for a decapitating blow.

The man shifted his weight and leaned barely a foot to his right. Where his head had been, the dagger now quivered in the wood of a door. Grecco shifted his weight again and dropped to the ground, balancing most of his weight on his hands. He kicked out before Crono could halt his charge, targeting Crono's injured leg. Crono crashed against the doorway, knocked off balance by the maneuver. The Masamune fell from his hand and Grecco kicked it away into the street. Almost as an after thought, Grecco pulled the dagger from the door and stabbed it back into Crono's shoulder.

Crono face was like that of a wild animal. His lips were drawn back and his mouth open. The scream that poured forth from that dark portal was full of defiance and frustration. Red phlegm flecked out from between his teeth, leaving crimson spots against Grecco's bare chest. Grecco darted away from Crono's reaching hands and flailing swings. He leapt backwards from the doorway, knowing that he'd disabled Crono's leg and the man couldn't follow him.

So he was reasonably surprised when Crono leapt to his feet and struck him a blow across the head that left his world spinning.


	27. Part xxvi

The fist that rammed itself into Grecco's face seemed hardly to be made of flesh and bone. Rather it was made of the rumble of thunder and the stirring force of lightning. He stumbled away from the blow, knowing that the warm splash on his chest was the blood pouring from his mouth. He tried to feel with his tongue if any teeth were missing, but the whole left side of his face was numb.

Suddenly Grecco was no longer on a street corner in Truce. He was in Choras, six years ago and twelve years old, fighting his first fight. The man in front of him was fourteen inches taller and six years older. His chest was shaven of its hair and his pectoral muscles bulged as he struck Grecco across the face, breaking his jaw with a single blow. Grecco had felt the blood on his chest then, too. Looking down at what was then a child's body, he had been shocked at how red blood was. It was a bright, fake, colour; like something an artist would use in a gaudy painting. It tasted fake, too, like chemicals and metal in his mouth. He remembered hearing a woman in the front row scream as he turned towards her, stumbling drunkenly with the pain. He couldn't blame her. A broken jaw was not a pretty thing. He would discover this a few seconds later, when he tackled his over confident opponent and broke his face open upon the hard floor of the fighting ring. Then it had been Grecco who was screaming. He pounded the man's flesh again and again until he couldn't tell any more what the mass on the ring in front of him was and his hands were covered in that gaudy colour.

Crono's fist crashed into his stomache, breaking one of his ribs with a dull crack. Grecco felt the broken pieces rub against each other as he moved backwards from the next blow. The swing missed him; the air crackled where it passed. Grecco kicked out low with his foot, hearing a satisfying crunch as he shattered Crono's ankle. The Warrior King sagged, but only for an instant. The uppercut caught Grecco off guard. He moved too late to avoid it, catching it full under his chin. His teeth snapped shut on his tongue and he tasted metal again. Though it was just a punch, and he'd received thousands throughout the years, it sent a shock through his body like being thrown into a lake during a storm.

The man Grecco had first fought had died from his wounds, which put Grecco into a specific circuit of fights. He had stuck with the same manager, even though he'd found out that the man had set up his first fight expecting Grecco to lose. The manager had even won some money betting that Grecco would be the first to bleed. Grecco liked people who wished him ill: he always knew what to expect from them. No one did anything without getting something for themselves. With someone who wished you only the best the uneasy question was always there as to what exactly they were getting out of the deal.

Over the years, Grecco would fight all manner of men and watch them die under his fists. Usually a fighter in his circuit only lasted a season, taking their winnings and running away from their former life while they still had breath in their body, or dying in the ring before they made enough to satisfy their greed. Grecco fought for five years. He saw the desire to die in more eyes than he could count. Usually, the fighter didn't seem aware of this desire. Drugs or base ignorance blocked the truth from their sight. But occasionally Grecco would come across a man who knew exactly why he stepped into the ring. Those were the eyes that took the longest to fade. Those were the men that haunted his dreams. Ultimately, they were the reason Grecco quit the ring and took the job in Truce. He was tired of looking into the eyes of the men he killed and seeing peace there.

Crono charged forward with one hand swinging in a vicious chop towards his face. Grecco interrupted the attack. He thought to crush the offending hand in his own and disable Crono, but it turned out to be all he could do just to keep his grip. Holding onto the red-head's hand was like trying to hold a piece of burning coal. The smell of burnt flesh reached his nostrils. Smoke was rising from his fist. In shock he let go and Crono pressed his advantage, wrapping those searing fingers around Grecco's throat and dragging him to the ground.

Grecco remembered another pair of hands around another neck. They were good, strong, hands. They were tanned from long years digging through soil under a hot sun and calloused from longer years spent wielding a hammer and other tools. When tools were in those hands, they became instruments of power, building the tiniest models of reality out of driftwood and other material that was pleasant to the touch. When they held a brush, they could breath life into those creations. With just a hint of colour, a white piece of deadwood could become the hull of a mighty ship, its bottom covered in barnacles from many journeys across the sea. They could be gentle hands, known to occasionally tussle Grecco's black hair or to nurse a flower bed to beautiful fruition. When their owner drank, they could be cruel hands, as well, lashing out without warning or provocation at the things that were closest to them.

Just as Grecco had watched them build toys or bring a garden to life, Grecco watched those hands curl around his mother's neck and squeeze a gasping scream out of her. He could barely remember his mother's face now, but he had never forgotten the hands that broke her. He had loved those hands.

Crono's eyes were small rings of blue surrounded by pools of white. Of all the eyes Grecco had looked into, of all the messages he had read there, he had never seen eyes like this before. They were supernatural eyes. They were saying, "You will die, little man."

The neighbors had found him curled around his father's legs, the blood from his father's throat invisible in the dark room where he'd killed himself. For weeks Grecco could shake his head and see dried flecks of red fall out of his hair. Grecco was sent to live with his wealthy uncle, his father's robust brother. The only thing Grecco remembered about his appearance was his thick brown beard. His father had always been clean shaven, but his head had the same thick curly hair as the beard. It was so different from Grecco's own sleek black hair.

The spoiled children who would briefly be his adoptive siblings told him his father had killed his mother for being a whore. She had let other men fuck her, they said, when his father was gone. When he broke one of his nephew's noses for this, his uncle turned him out onto the street. As his uncle led him into the slums of Choras, he informed Grecco of his personal views on his brother's actions.

"He was right to kill that whore," he said. "The only thing he did wrong was that he let her bastard spawn live."

As Grecco watched, the white in Crono's eyes began to expand. It started to choke out the blue, creeping in at the corners until all that was left was the black dot of the pupil. In that white Grecco saw his own face reflected, puffed out with the exertion of trying to breathe past the hands choking the life out of him. Seeing himself reflected in those pools of white, with the black dots in the middle displaying no emotion, Grecco felt consumed. He felt naked.

He felt judged.

Now his hands were wrapped around those that were slowly killing them. His fingers burned where they gripped the other's skin. The eyes continued to stare at him, unfeeling. The world became dimmer, threatened to go black. Instead, everything turned white and he knew no more.

He didn't know how much time passed before he opened his eyes. His first emotion was panic. He couldn't see. Had his father put out his eyes? Had he finally gotten revenge on his bastard son? Then he remembered the light, that all consuming light, and he realized that it was that which had taken his vision from him.

Slowly feeling was returning to him. It wasn't a pleasant sensation. It reminded him of the day after a fight. The night of a fight was all numbness and adrenaline. The next day was when all the pains started in, when you told yourself that you'd never get in that ring again no matter how much you were paid or how addicted you were to the smell of blood and the cheering of the crowd. Even back then, though, he'd never been hurt this badly. His skin felt stretched tight over his bones. Every breath he took felt like it was cracking that fragile skin and he could imagine pus and blood oozing down out of the cracks. He'd seen such horrors on other men. He remembered one man, a disliked fighter, who was burnt alive by an angry mob that had lost money on him. He remembered the man trying to beat the fire off his skin and whole pieces of his flesh coming away with each desperate swipe.

Suddenly the wind shifted and Grecco caught the grossly appetizing scent of cooking meat in his nostrils. He tried to ignore it, knowing it was his own flesh that he smelling. The intense heat was everywhere. He could feel it closing in on him.

Grecco had two options. He could either continue to lie in the street, waiting to burn to death, or he could get up. He figured he should at least attempt to try the latter. He was far from convinced that it would better his situation, but he could always change his mind later and lay back down to die. Groaning involuntarily, Grecco rolled over, remembering too late his broken ribs. They scraped against each other, catching a hold of his muscle in the process and pinching it sharply. That was his first surprise. His second surprise was that he could see.

Not only could Grecco see, but he wasn't on fire. His skin was tight with burns, the strained soreness of a day spent under a hot sun, but it wasn't cracked and bleeding like the victims of torture he'd seen. The fire he'd felt consuming him, the fear that his skin would peel off, even his supposed blindness, seemed to have been nothing more than an imagined nightmare. Already he could rationalize things. He had been laying on his stomache, staring into the black street. Thus his lack of vision. He'd been left for dead there. It was much harder than most people realized to kill a man by strangling him. The brain would shut down and a man's body become limp after only a minute or two of oxygen loss. But the man would still live. They could stand up minutes or even hours later, feeling much the way that Grecco had felt: disoriented and full of memories and half-imagined pains. Obviously that was what had happened here. The Warrior King wasn't as trained in the art of death as Grecco had thought.

Elated, he stood up and looked around.

The street on which he and Crono had fought was nothing like it had been before the bright light had washed over him. It wasn't a street at all anymore. It was a clearing. The buildings which had once reached two or three stories into the sky were gone, replaced by a misty fog of dust and ash. Though he saw no fires, the smell of burning flesh remained, making him place the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to keep in a dinner he hadn't eaten. For as far as Grecco could see, there was nothing except rubble and the permeating fog. Truce was gone.

Crono was sitting not far away on a piece of stone that had once formed part of a doorway to a building. Now the stone was the tallest structure remaining on the street. The man's red hair blew gently around his face in the stirring wind as he surveyed the destruction in front of him. He still bled openly from his wounds but he took as little notice of them as Grecco was taking of his. Because there was nothing else to do, Grecco approached him, his feet making soft sounds as they waded through ash that left his bare feet white.

"Did you learn what you wanted?" Crono asked, as Grecco came to stand beside him. His voice was quiet and the words slurred with exhaustion.

"Did I...?" For a moment Grecco was confused. Then he remembered his words earlier and smiled. "No," he said. "What about you?"

"No. I still feel..."

Crono trailed off and looked at him, then, his eyebrows brought together in a concentrated frown. Grecco remembered the black dots that had judged him earlier and shuddered. But the eyes were their normal blue and he could read them this time. They were filled first with searching, as if Grecco held the answer to some unasked question. Then they decided he knew nothing and the look became accusatory.

"What?" Grecco pressed. "What do you feel?"

"Nothing," Crono answered and looked away again. "I don't feel anything anymore."


	28. Part xxvii

In the eastern tower of Guardia Castle, Nadia thought she heard a baby crying. She fingered the pendant around her neck and trembled.

"Are you alright?" Ghetz asked, his voice burdened with concern and hoarse from his yelling. In fifteen minutes of yelling, not a soul had bothered to approach the tower. No one knew they were there. "You've gone white as a sheet."

Nadia shook her head. "It was nothing. It's this room, is all. It's a bit... drafty."

"There's an old blanket in the corner. I could get it for you."

"No," Nadia said quickly. "No, thank you, leave it there. I'll be fine."

Ghetz sighed and moved away from the heavy door, taking a rest from his vigil. He hovered for an indecisive moment in the middle of the room then moved to sit down on the edge of the bed. It let out a sullen creak under his weight.

"I'll try again in a minute," he said. "Let me find my voice again."

"I would save it," Nadia replied. "No one comes to this side of the castle anymore."

Ghetz ran his hand through his short scruff of hair, scratching the back of his head in thought. "Your husband... the King won't allow his Queen to be held captive. He'll make some deal and you'll be free."

Nadia didn't answer him and Ghetz smiled cautiously, making a superficial attempt to mask his anxiety.

"I'm the one in trouble," he said, assuming a voice of mock exasperation. "Trapped all alone in a dark, deserted, part of the castle with the Queen. What will people say?"

"I suppose they would say that the Queen was being held hostage for ransom or death and that one of her Captains was unskilled enough to be trapped along with me."

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

Ghetz looked down as quickly as he could without letting it seem like he was hiding the sudden redness of his face. Nadia stared at him for a moment then, whether out of demure respect or because it was too dark to see anything, she looked away, allowing him to suffer his embarrassment in private silence. He cleared his throat.

"Look, that was stupid of me. I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize, Ghetz." Nadia took a deep breath and let it out quickly, as if trying to force her cares away with it. "I can't bear to be mad at you when all you're trying to do is cheer me. Anyway, what you said... it reminds me of the kind of thing I would have said once."

"Um, well, you've grown up." He regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, though he didn't know why. Though he'd chosen the words, he felt like they represented an entirely different sentiment from what he'd meant to say. Nadia moved to an old chair and stared at it with a kind of fearful loathing he didn't understand. She didn't sit.

"Do you remember playing in this tower as children, Ghetz?" she asked.

Ghetz smiled to himself as the room seemed to lose some of its darkness. He heard Nadia's silvery voice when she was a child, sharing her hidden fantasies with him and promising that they lay beyond a door they could never open.

"That day you fell," Nadia said. "I snuck back up the tower and opened the door."

Nadia gave him a hurried and unsure glance, as if checking to make sure he wasn't angry with her, then she moved to the window and looked at at the distant fire that Melchior said was Truce.

"You went away," she said suddenly. "After you fell; you went away."

"I was sent away," he protested. "All the squires were. It was part of our training."

"Where did they send you?" Nadia continued to look out the window, as if trying to visualize his journey.

Ghetz shrugged, the bed complaining at even this slight movement. "All over. I went to Medina many times, Choras once. I even did a small bit in the El Nido peninsula. It's beautiful out there. But most of the time was just spent in Poore and Fiona's Forest. It's the usual training grounds. Has been for generations."

Nadia smiled softly as he said this, as if she had some secret that amused her, but she didn't say anything. Talking felt good suddenly, so Ghetz went on.

"When you're sitting in the Forest and the dusk begins to fall, you can look up and see the stars coming out. At first it's like dust in your eyes. You aren't sure that what you're seeing is real. Then they start to play with you, first appearing here, then jumping into existence over there. It's like droplets of water falling into the bottom of a huge glass. Only the glass is made of obsidian... ah, I'm not doing this justice."

"I think it sounds amazing. I wish I had been there."

"It was nothing as exciting as what I heard from the castle," Ghetz said, a glint in his eyes like a little boy planning mischief. "While I was gone, I heard tell of a tomboy princess being kidnapped from the castle by a declared terrorist."

Nadia actually laughed. "That must have been a surprise."

"No, that's how I knew it was you. They recalled me, you know. All the knights-in-training were called back by the False Chancellor."

"You were at the castle? You didn't come to see me."

"I saw you. The day you freed Crono from the prisons, I was there. I was on guard at the castle doors when I saw you running into the forest with two others."

"That would've been Crono and Lucca Ashtear."

"You had a crossbow, of all things."

"I'm surprised you recognized me."

"It was your run. I had watched you run those stairs so many times, I would've known it from across the courtyard. As it was, you actually ran into me. Knocked me clear out of your path."

"That was you?" Nadia was laughing again.

"The bruise took two weeks to heal."

"I'm sorry," Nadia said, and laughed harder.

"The Chancellor was furious. He came screaming out of the castle with those guards of his. Remember the ones that wore those blue suits? They ordered the Knights into the woods after you."

"But you never found us," Nadia finished, slyness written on the red twist of her lips.

"That part I never understood. The Forest was watched for days until the Chancellor gave up. Then your father ordered Crono's sentence on hold until after the Moonlight Parade. As soon as he did that, you came marching back in and created pandemonium again. But, by then, I was back in Fiona's Forest, with the stars. I often wondered how you pulled that trick..." Ghetz trailed off, remembering suddenly his father's voice speaking earlier that night:

_...People said some fairly strange things. Remember the Blue Eaglets came back? And they'd been extinct for over a hundred years. Some people even disappeared in the north woods..._

The last time Ghetz had seen his father, he'd been riding towards a shimmering movement in the trees. In his mind, certain questions quickly turned to suspicions and then to undesirable certainties.

"Where did you go that day?" Ghetz asked, the coldness of the tower seeming to seep into his bones as he asked the question.

Nadia looked away from him and gave that knowing smile again, the smile a child gives you when they know a simple answer to a riddle you've been killing yourself to solve.

"It's so funny that you were there that day," she said, ignoring the question. "Who would have thought that you'd be recalled to the castle on the day I ran off?""

"Who would've thought the princess would be escaping the castle?"

"Ha, or that she'd come back a week later?"

"That was the big surprise, truly."

"A bigger surprise than anything else?"

"Except maybe that you'd end up marrying the man the Chancellor said was going to burn Guardia," Ghetz said, without thinking.

The feeling in your stomache before fine dishware hits a marble floor; the loss of breath as the glass of wine spills its red contents towards your bride's wedding gown, the swell of emptiness inside you that comes from knowing that, had you reached out and grabbed the glass, all would be well. These were the feelings that overwhelmed Ghetz after he spoke those words. The silence that followed was the silence of regret.

"I think I'll go back to yelling, now," Ghetz said to break that awful silence. He pushed himself up from the bed quickly, disturbing an alarming amount of dust in the process.

Then he froze. Nadia turned from the window. There were footsteps coming up the stairs. The soft jangle of keys followed them.

Ghetz would have liked to have thought that in such a situation he would know exactly what to do. Had he been asked minutes before it happened to come up with a plan he could have easily responded. He would tell the Queen to get into a corner of the room. He would grab one of the chairs and get near the door. When it opened, he would break the damn thing into kindling over the head of whoever came through first and fight the rest with the splinters. He would have the advantage as their backs would be to a dangerous fall. He would use it to full effect, forcing them into confusion before they could regroup. Surely they would have weapons that he could take. Breaking free of the castle, killing as many rebels along the way as he could, and sending the Queen into safety (which he reluctantly realized would be the King's arms)... this would have been his plan and it would have been a good one, as far as half-minute plans went.

What actually happened was that he stared at the opening door with a bewildered look upon his face. He didn't move from the dusty bed or grab even an impromptu weapon. The door swung on screeching hinges, sending dust swirling towards the ceiling without any hope of reaching it. A presence stood in the doorway, as still as Ghetz and Nadia, only its chest rising and falling with even breaths. The dying light of the moon and the waking light of the dawn cast dim rays through the dust motes to glint off something metallic where the person's hand stretched forward towards the door. At this, Ghetz finally found his wits. He tensed, fearing a weapon, determined to throw himself upon it's wielder before it came anywhere near Nadia. It wasn't a plan to be proud of, barely a plan at all, but it would accomplish his goal of giving Nadia a chance to escape.

Ghetz moved forward and perhaps he would've died in that moment had not the voice of the intruder stopped him.

"Were you going to attack me, captain?" Bill asked. His voice carried a bare hint of sardonic accusation but no emotion beyond that. Ghetz received the impression that it wasn't a rhetorical question.

"You're part of the plot, too?" Ghetz said. He hadn't planned on talking with the attacker. He hadn't planned anything, of course, but he felt he should be attacking, not wasting time and losing the element of surprise.

"That depends on which plot you mean." The heavy lids that were perpetually half-closed over Bill's eyes turned them into shadows lacking expression. "I'm here to take the Queen."

Had the statement come from anything other than those pale lips and that monotone voice, Ghetz would have pounced. Instead he shifted his weight between his feet and spoke less surely than he would have preferred.

"You can't take the Queen," he said.

Bill impatiently tapped his metallic arm against the stone wall, creating a clicking sound like that a bird makes when it sharpens its beak against a rock.

"You want to make the Queen a hostage?" Bill asked, the tapping punctuating each of his words with a sharp clack. "It would be less apparent that something went amiss in the plan if I didn't have to kill anyone."

"What are your intentions?" The soft feminine voice had such a unique touch of defiance in it that Ghetz suddenly remembered that the Queen whose future he and Bill were trading words about was more than a title. She was a human. She was Nadia.

Bill, in his own way, seemed to come to the same realization. He stepped into the room, the sky-blue chancellor robes in which Crono had adorned him sweeping the floor clean of its dust and grime. He made a deep bow, his black metallic arm placed over his chest and his strawberry-blonde hair falling even further over his face.

"My Queen, I intend to escort you to the castle gates."

"There to parade her in front of the rebels?" Ghetz accused.

"There to set her free," Bill answered.

"How do you propose we make it past the gates?" Nadia asked.

"For the moment, they are unguarded and easily opened. The stable boy has consented to prepare the fastest horse for you. You can ride-"

"Ghetz comes," Nadia interrupted.

The shock that one feels when they see something unexpected but not unpleasant; that warmth inside the stomache and the rising of the heart to the throat and then it staying there; these were the things Ghetz felt at Nadia's words. Bill swallowed his sentence to consider those words. He rose from his bow and turned his gaze upon Ghetz.

"This complicates things," he said. It was his usual monotone voice, but now there was a touch of complaint in it and a dash of protest.

"If I'm to be freed, I should have some say in it," Nadia said.

"It will look suspicious."

"Ghetz comes," Nadia repeated.

Bill gave Ghetz another look. His eyelids raised briefly to reveal the stunning blue of his eyes. Only for an instant: they soon lowered again and he bowed once more.

"Very well. I still recommend a single horse. Harder to track."

"But three can't ride on one horse," Nadia tilted her head down and crossed her arms, the look she reserved for things she didn't understand. "You're not coming with us?"

"Why would I go?"

"Oh, I had thought..." Nadia couldn't hide the relief from her voice. Ghetz thought he saw Bill stiffen. Nadia might have sensed it, too, though she spoke again only with reluctance. "Won't the King... won't Crono suspect you?"

"Why would he suspect me?"

"Crono will know," Nadia said, now a hint of fear touching her words. "He always knows."

"It's been taken care of."

Bill didn't offer any further explanation or wait to hear any more objections. He turned away from the two of them and, his robes trailing behind him, left the room to begin the precarious descent. Ghetz and Nadia looked at each other, then followed without speaking.

At this point, Ghetz might have expected his relief to be grand. Something poetic could jump to one's mind, such as "a relief washed over them like the coolness of a Spring shower come late to the Summer months." However, this would be a fallacy. In fact, Ghetz felt very little. Exhaustion will turn life grey and replace exultation with simple, base, acceptance.

Ghetz accepted that they had been released from their prison and, after following Bill down through the tower and into the main castle halls, that they would come unmolested to the gates. It wasn't until they approached the dining hall that Ghetz felt something akin to emotion. It was strange to hear laughter echoing through the halls as guests still feasted and drank in celebration of the Solstice, forgetful of the Matriarch's death and ignorant of the fact that the coast burned under their King's hand.

Nadia walked in front of Ghetz and behind Bill, her gait that of someone who has already seen the end of the path they travel and hasn't made up their mind that it's where they want to be. Bill led the way, aloof at best. Watching them both walk silently towards fate was doing little to improve Ghetz's own disposition. His nerves spiked at every laugh or distant footstep. At any moment he expected a rebel to turn the corner, or Melchior, or an army of angered peasants.

Or the King. Somehow that thought terrified him more than the others.

Suddenly Nadia stopped walking. Though Ghetz stumbled forward for a few steps before noticing, Bill stopped instantly and turned around. He didn't say anything; he simply waited for Nadia to explain herself.

"I need to go to my chambers," she said.

"Everything you will need upon your journey has been provided," Bill said. "There are saddlebags packed and waiting in the stables. Should I list the goods that were packed?" he asked, without sarcasm.

"You forgot something. I need to retrieve it."

"Deviating from our course is inadvisable." Bill said. Ghetz found himself rather in agreement with the man. Nadia was having none of it.

"Wait here for me, or alert the guards. I'm going to my chambers. Alone," she added strongly, seeing Ghetz start to walk towards her. Without another word, she ducked down the nearest corridor and was gone. Ghetz felt himself turning red as the sharpness of Nadia's words echoed in his ears. Bill absent-mindedly scratched a spot on his metal arm, as if remembering some ancient itch, and then retreated into the shadows cast by a large statue of a Griffon holding Guardia's coat of arms in its Lion's paws. Gargoyles pranced about its talons, hooked into the stone pedestal on which it sat. Ghetz stared only for a moment at the intricate work of the statue before he found himself studying what little he could see of the man beneath it.

Crono had enamored himself with Bill after Ghetz had already been assigned to Truce so Ghetz had never had opportunity to get to know him. It was hard, Ghetz found, to think of Bill as a person. There was something inhuman about him. It went beyond his metallic arm and chest plate. It was something limp and oily in his beautiful red-blonde hair. Something slouched and crouching in his posture. Something dead in his blue eyes.

The more Ghetz watched Bill's unmoving form, the more Ghetz realized that he didn't dislike the man. Though he could barely be older than 23, Bill seemed like a man who had already lived and died. Ghetz couldn't fathom the kind of experiences someone would need to reach the end of their life before they had barely begun it. What had Bill's dreams been? Had they come true and already passed into bittersweet memories? Or had all hope of achieving them been lost long ago?

Then there was the question of why Bill was helping them. A trap wouldn't make sense, not when Bill could easily have killed him in the tower and taken Nadia. More than that, Ghetz could feel a tension in Bill. Underneath his cool demeanor, Bill was terrified lest this plan of his fail. But why? When he wasn't even planning on fleeing himself, what did he hope to gain from their escape? What relief would it grant him?

Ghetz recalled Nadia's relief that Bill wasn't coming with them. He'd never known her to be frightened of anything, but this man with the metal arm and the life that was already over frightened her. Ghetz recalled Bill's reaction to her words, his turning away from their evident joy.

"How long have you loved her?" Ghetz asked into the darkness.

"Since I first saw her," Bill said, very quietly and quickly, as if he'd been expecting the question. Ghetz heard him shuffle his feet in the dark. "What about you?"

"She is my Queen,"Ghetz said.

"Mm," Bill made a unimpassioned sound of agreement. "You know, Ghetz, I think in another world, another time, we might have been friends. I'm glad you're going with her."

"I'll keep her safe until the King's return," Ghetz said in the solemn tones of a promise.

"I think you might need to keep her safe long after that." Bill stopped leaning against the muscular leg of the Griffon and came into the center of the hall. The bright light of the lamps made his blue robes seem like the sky on a clear day. He rolled up the sleeve covering his left arm and held the arm under one of the lamps. Ghetz winced. The limb was withered, in places the flaking black and red of burn scars, in other places a ghastly colour of green and purple laced with trails of veins that seemed pressed against the skin as if trying to escape it.

"I know her husband's strength," Bill said. "I haven't felt anything in this arm since we met in Choras."

"Have you seen a doctor for that?" Ghetz asked, trying to pull his eyes away from the mass of scar tissue and infected nerves. He was certain they would tell the man that the arm would have to come off. How long he had lived with it in that condition... Ghetz tried to remember just when Crono had come back from Choras. The thought of it sickened him.

"I don't like doctors," Bill replied, pulling the sleeve back down with a grimace. "It's a reminder of the danger that man represents."

As he said this, Bill looked at Ghetz with clear meaning in those blue pools.

"I'll watch after her," Ghetz said. "No harm will come to her."

Bill sighed then and moved back underneath the statue. "I begin to feel that this arm represents me, Ghetz. Useless and dying."

"You should really go to a doctor for that arm."

"The doctor's would just want it off," he said, confirming Ghetz's suspicions. "They might be right, but I think I've lost enough already. I could always lose more, but I don't want to."

"You've got..." Ghetz caught the glass this time and stopped himself just in time from saying it.

"I've got my other arm?" Bill finished for him, but he didn't sound offended or upset. "I do, at that. It gets heavier every day."

They said no more to each other. It was not long after that they were rejoined by Nadia. Ghetz could see the wetness in her eyes that showed she'd been crying. Something else seemed wrong, too, like there was something changed or missing about her. He couldn't place it.

Nadia dropped her head suddenly, and Ghetz realized in that moment, as her sorrow wrung his heart, that he truly did love her. He knew, too, what a burden that would be for the both of them. He looked at Bill and saw in his blue eyes that he understood, though he wasn't sure whether it was acceptance or a deeper sorrow that brewed beneath his brows.

"Alright," Nadia said, lifting her head. "We can leave now."

Barely ten minutes later, Ghetz was mounted on a black horse. Nadia's dress gown was wrong for riding, but she swung herself up behind Ghetz nonetheless and made herself as comfortable as she could. As she clung to his back, his thoughts were full of the memory of her in the days when they had been children and sorrow was something foreign to them both. As he kicked the horse to a gallop, he swore that he would make her smile again. The forest swallowed them and he let the horse guide itself. All he could see in the blackness in front of him was Nadia.

It was a kindness that he didn't know what Bill knew: that her thoughts were always full of Crono.


	29. Part xxviii

Melchior sat alone in the Eastern Tower, ignoring the voices calling his name through the locked door. Every time he shifted his weight, the chair beneath him screeched in response. It's thick wooden legs rolled onto the ancient stone of the floor, sending plumes of dust cascading into the air. Melchior rocked back and forth almost without realizing he was doing it. One hand gripped the arm of the chair, scratching at the splintered wood anxiously. The other hand clenched the wine glass that held the death of Crono's mother. His eyes moved continually back and forth between the wine glass and the distant cloud of black smoke that hung over where Truce had once been. He sat, watching for signs that did not come, waiting for revelations that weren't there, and wondering where exactly the plan had gone wrong.

The plan had been simple. Get Crono out of the castle and keep Nadia inside. The peasants of Truce were supposed to have marched on the Guardia Forest. Crono was supposed to have gone to stop them. The other power, the one that had been growing on the borders of Crono's rule, was supposed to arrive in his absence to take control of the one thing Crono cared for, the one thing that might move him. None of this had happened. Instead Guardia burned, Nadia was gone, and Crono was returning to the castle more powerful than he'd been in years.

Melchior wondered what Dalton was thinking.

Samdel and his Trucian allies could never have posed a threat to Crono's power. Even if the King had not been a formidable warrior himself, the kingdom of Guardia boasted a military force to best all the other nations of the world. Their standing army was twice the size of that of Medina, not to mention that the army was equipped with inventions of war, designed in Poore using Lucca Ashtear's technologies. That Samdel thought they had a chance of actually accomplishing revolution showed just how deeply Dalton's wiles had penetrated Guardia. The Zealian had planted the seed of revolt so subtly that even the leaders of Truce's rebels weren't aware that the revolutionary ideas weren't their own. More importantly, they weren't aware that their purpose wasn't to kill the King but simply to distract him. They weren't meant to win a war; they were giving Dalton a chance to start one.

The voices were still calling his name. Now fists were hammering on the door. Melchior listened to them for a moment, trying to see if he could identify the callers. One of them sounded like Sariah... but no, Melchior was remembering him as a lad. Sariah was an older man now, just as he was. HIs voice would not be young, so tremulous. The pounding began to aggravate him. Melchior put it out of mind.

Melchior held up the wine glass, staring at the dark smoke in the distance through its crystal surface. Just as wine had stained the glass red, turning the distant image of destruction into a muddled fresco so, too, had Crono's actions sullied time. Crono had looked into his future under the murky gaze of possibility and taken it as fact. Then he had gone into the past and tried to kill that future as surely as someone had killed his mother.

Melchior chuckled, but it was a disturbed chuckle. Melchior had often had the unsettling feeling that he'd met Crono and the Queen, but it wasn't until Dalton had told him the full history of their exploits through time that the truth had been revealed to him. Then he had thought of Gaspar, the first time he had thought of the old man in half a century, and of his theories on time. Gaspar had been interested in the possibility of time manipulation and had numerous complicated theories about what happened when one pierced what he called "the illusion of the fourth dimension."

One of the questions most frequently posed about the manipulation of time is whether one can change their future. The leading philosophers of Zeal had debated back and forth on this issue. Some claimed that humans lived a life of pre-determined fate and that they couldn't change the path they walked on. Others believed that life manifested its own destiny, in whatever form a person was strong and intelligent enough to pursue. It was a sign of Zealian arrogance and self-indulgence that it had taken the philosophers twelve years before they'd even thought to bring Gaspar, then the young but acknowledged leading mind on the subject, into the debate.

Gaspar's response was unique. Both parties were right, he said. You could change the future, yes, but you couldn't change time. You couldn't remove energy from the universe, you could only displace it. Solving one world crisis would only cause another one to show up somewhere else in history. Gaspar had illustrated his concept with a bowl of oil mixed with vinegar. He had pointed to a plate at his elbow while the philosophers crowded around, eagerly awaiting some show of magic.

"Consider this plate to be the present. The canvas of our present, if you will. And this bowl, this is the past and the future, the 'what will be.' This bowl is time. We know exactly how much oil and how much vinegar is there."

Then he had spooned some of the mixture onto the plate with a grand gesture.

"See?" he had said excitedly, pointing to the plate and beckoning everyone to look closer. "You've still got oil and you've still got the vinegar. Maybe in different places, slightly different proportions, but they are still there. So see? You've managed to change the present, but! Dip into the bowl enough times and you'll have exactly the same amount that you started with."

What was more, Gaspar said, time had a sense of humour. It loved irony. Gaspar illustrated this concept by dipping a piece of bread into the mixture on the plate and eating it.

"This," he said. "Is what the universe thinks of our little debate."

The demonstration was not well received, but it made its point. Over a decade of debate lost its fire in a single instant. Gaspar went back to anonymity and his work. But not for long. A year later Gaspar published his "Treatise on Time" and the Queen had taken notice. Suddenly his ideas were popular. Suddenly he was the third Guru, the Guru of Time. There were no more demonstrations, unless the Queen ordered them.

Melchior thought on Crono and the great disaster he had displaced. He twitched his left hand, sloshing around the little bit of liquid that was left in the wine glass. It was just like holding time in his hands. He just wondered how much of it was poison and how much of it was Trucian wine.

"If I thought for a moment she would be in any danger, I wouldn't have done it," he said aloud. For a moment, the pounding on the door stopped, as if someone had heard him and was preparing a response. But no response came and the silence did little to reassure him. The plan had seemed shockingly benign. Melchior had never trusted Dalton and a hundred years of life hadn't changed his opinion. But the dreams he'd had had been so vivid of late and so terrible. Dalton's plan, next to those visions, seemed not only lucid and calm but necessary.

But poison had never been part of the deal. The death of Gina had never been part of the deal. When it had happened, Melchior had first thought of betrayal. He'd thought Dalton had tricked him and was simply enacting revenge rather than revolution. But the more he'd thought on it, the more that possibility didn't make sense. Dalton was chasing power; a power he would never seize by playing his hand so early. He wanted Crono soft and weak, not riled up into a righteous anger.

Someone else had come in. Some other player.

Melchior had felt this chill before, this darkening of his vision in the face of an uncertain future. The last time this coldness had gripped his heart he'd seen the fall of the greatest Kingdom in the world. Only fate had removed him from being part of that fall. It had placed him here, where he thought he'd found peace. The irony was incredible. Gaspar had been right. You couldn't escape your fate. You could only relocate it.

The pounding on the door grew more insistent. He heard the announcement given to break it down. He couldn't wait any longer. Lifting the glass of wine to his lips, he downed the remainder of the poison.

The taste was funny, like an ale brewed incorrectly so as to be too bitter. That was the last rational thought Melchior had before his body was wracked by a shuddering pain. The wine glass shattered on the floor. The rocking chair moaned its protests as he convulsed in it, his back arching and falling as his stomache tried unsuccessfully to expel the poison from its bowels. Blood welled from his mouth, oozing into his white beard sluggishly, flecked with black and yellow. He was spitting out pieces of his stomache.

A lifetime passed before him in a moment. His birth in the enlightened city of Enhasa. His beautiful and regal mother, his strict but kindly father. A multitude of tutors, most of them forgotten except by name, flashed before his mind. He recalled the lore they had imparted to him. Through them he had learned the secrets of all materials, so that the hardest metals became tools in his hands and slaves to his dreams. One tutor in particular, an old woman named Spriggin, had taught him the methods of connecting with plants and discovering their secrets. It was this technique which Melchior called upon now, praying that he remembered the process correctly.

With supreme effort, Melchior pushed the memories of his life out of his mind. He ignored the sounds in the hall, the renewed attempts to knock down the heavy oak door with what sounded like an axe. All of these things would only serve to distract him. He had only moments to discover the truth. Bill had said the poison was Shinrock. He'd said it had been chosen because it could be gathered by the assassin himself. The killer wouldn't have to deal with a merchant, he wouldn't have to leave any trail behind him. Except that he'd left a trail unknowingly, a trail Melchior could follow. The Shinrock would remember being picked and it would tell Melchior who had done the picking.

Melchior saw new things He saw young, strong, hands forging a blade from a rock so startlingly red that it seemed like something out of a dream. He saw two imps dancing in a land that did not exist. One wanted to be the wind. He heard a bard asking him about bowling balls and sashimi. He saw a woman with blue hair walking the halls of a floating city with a young boy, her brother, at her side. She was the most beautiful, kindest, woman to ever exist and he loved her more than he would ever tell her.

No, thought Melchior. These are my memories. These are not the memories I seek. I know these memories. The ones I seek I do not yet know.

The dust floating through the air was shining brightly. The floor was beneath his head. Melchior was confused until he realized that he'd fallen out of the chair. He was concerned for only a moment. There was no pain, so he went back to looking at the dust. He could see each individual mote, mark the way it floated next to its million brothers and sisters. He saw patterns in the aimless floating that seemed to tell more about what life meant than any philosophy he'd ever heard. Melchior closed his eyes. It was just another distraction that he couldn't afford. He needed to see what the plant had seen. He needed to know who had planned so carefully the destruction of the King's sanity. He feared the answer, he feared what he'd been a fool to trust in, but he feared more dying without knowing and without leaving some mark of the knowing behind to warn the King.

When the vision finally came upon him, it was an incredible relief. At the same time, the shock of the vision was beyond anything he had imagined. He could barely recall why he'd dared to know such a thing. Between the shock and the relief, the last vestiges of his willpower drifted away, like the dust drifting in unseen patterns above his head.

Norris was the first through the door after it was broken down. He was only twelve and a helper in the kitchens. The position of command in this particular endeavor had fallen upon him simply because he was one of the few people sober enough to climb the Eastern Tower stairs. The other sober person, the cook Nicholas, leaned heavily against the axe he'd used to break down the door and waved the young boy through.

It was Norris' first time seeing a man die. Over the years he would be destined to see many more deaths but the only one he would ever have nightmares about was this old man with blood in his beard, grabbing at his collar and pulling him close to lips that smelled like vomit, gasping the same words over and over until he finally fell away, cracking his head on the floor and lying still.

"He's back," the old man had said. "Tell the King he's back."


	30. Part xxix

The mountain was the end and the beginning of the world. The mountain to the north of Truce was more of a butte, in truth, but even a butte can feel infinitely high when the climber looks behind them from a rise to see the world stretching out forever. The climber will be motivated to stop and to stare, if only long enough to pick out landmarks that once seemed significant. Viewed from on high, though, the river they swam in as a child is no more than a dark line in the earth. The rolling plains that they once spent three days crossing can be spanned in a moment by simply raising the head and looking to the other side. There is the spot where the climber's house should be and over there the climber expects to see the tall steeple of the village church. But these sort of things are so tiny as to be non-existent. They can't be found. It is at this point that the climber may start to consider what they look like compared to the greatness of the mountain; an insect crawling on the foot of a god.

Urine splashed down amidst rocks in a gully that had been formed by a stream that no longer existed. James sighed as he relieved himself. He reflected with mild interest how emptying one's bladder could clear one's head. No matter how surreal or awful the night had been, the basic needs of his body forced him to accept that what was happening was real. Nearby, other survivors were attending similar needs. James couldn't see them, but he could hear their coughs and sighs in the dark. He couldn't tell how many there were or how close they were to him. They were whispers in the corner of his hearing. He only focused on them out of exhaustion, the kind of exhaustion that makes such things occupy the entire mind, if only because they keep one from thinking on more uncomfortable thoughts. He stared in the general direction of the ground and wished that he could see it. He wished for the distraction of a bug crawling across the ground, or the beauty of a small flower growing; some vision that he could lose himself in, however briefly.

James had long ago let his life fall into apathy and he knew it. He had never made excuses for it, keeping his conversations short, his observations precise, and his mind always on what he was doing. Cynicism had come to him naturally and despair would occasionally follow. He'd gotten good at dealing with it by working his best at not caring. But just a few hours ago, he had watched Truce burn. He had seen the bright light build in the center of the city and expand slowly outward. He'd seen those who were touched by the light spark and smolder as their skin peeled away from their bones. Only the lucky ones had died. The less fortunate had fallen, in flames, to the streets, desperately rolling in what water was left from the night's rains. They left their skin as black stains on the roads where they rolled. James had watched all of this from the safety of his family's home. He had looked out of the wide windows at his hometown burning and had felt something.

It was this feeling which had made him leave the mayor's mansion and run down the hill towards the flames. The feeling had grown in him with the heat on his face, until the fire was a fever burning, not outside of him, but from inside spurring him on. He was running, surely looking ridiculous in his finest clothes, which he wore out of tradition for the night of the Solstice. The shoes, meant for standing in and looking pretty, were not meant for running so that each slap that his feet made against the hard stone of the street felt like a warhammer pounding against the bottom of his soles. The pointed toes of the shoes pinched his feet together, pressing his nails into the corner of his toes until he was sure he was drawing blood. He kept running. Jessica lived with her husband, Dallon, at the edge of Truce. He had to get to her. He had to get to his sister.

He didn't remember seeing Jessica's house burning to the ground. He didn't recall running into the flaming wreckage, nor did he recall a scream shaking his body as he saw Jessica laying under a table. He had only a brief memory of Romana curled in her arms. What he remembered clearly was reaching them. He remembered the way Jessica's hair had turned to soot in his hands as he ran his fingers through it. He remembered her lips peeling away from her gums as they smoldered in the heat of the fire. He remembered placing his head on her shoulder and it being hot enough to burn him.

They would later tell him that Dallon had pulled him and Romana from the fire. James didn't remember this at all, but he had seen the burns all over Dallon's hairy arms; the patches where the hair was burnt away. Those same hairy arms had broken Jessica's nose in three pieces two months after they had married. They'd given her six black eyes and been a constant threat to her well-being when their owner was drunk. An hour ago, James had watched those arms cover Dallon's face, while his body shook with sobs for the woman he had abused for five years. James watched Dallon and for the first time in as long as he could remember, James couldn't stop himself from feeling something. He only wished he knew what it was he felt, whether it was hatred or gratitude.

Soon they would be on the move again. Dallon said he knew where the rebels were. Dallon said they would be safe there, that it would be over soon. James wished he could believe him. He had considered leaving the group behind and striking out on his own... it wouldn't matter _where_. But then he'd think of Romana and the whole plot would fall apart.

James heard a noise behind him. He turned, sure that it would be Romana. She had a habit, since the fire, of showing up whenever he thought of her,. She never had been a talker. She did what she had always done. She watched with those big green eyes and smiled with a mouth full of half grown teeth. She still had burn marks across her arms and face and she touched them sometimes gently with caressing fingertips, as if the marks were old friends.

"Oh, sorry," a voice said. "I didn't know somebody was already here."

It wasn't Romana. It was a man. James looked him over, trying to see if he recognized him, but there was nothing noteworthy about him. He was just another tired figure in the dark.

"I'm about done," James replied. "Don't worry yourself over it."

"Aye, then," the man said, taking up a position close to James. The man hawked and spit into the darkness, the wet smack being muffled with the sound of his relieving himself. James pictured the spittle as a blob filled with red and black; the same as his had been only an hour ago, like he had been spitting up the memory of all that smoke and fire.

"We've got a bird to catch, a cat to save, and no time to spare."

The familiar euphemism startled James. "A rush towards chaos?"

"Well, not exactly. It's just... I look out through these trees and I can see that light down there and I know it's my home burning. Hard not to feel like everything's been turned on its head."

James finished his own business and began to tuck up his pants. "I've been looking elsewhere," he said.

"Yeah, maybe, but you see it in here, don't you?" There was a soft tapping sound and James imagined the man was tapping his head in blind illustration. The man gave a grunting chuckle and continued.

"You know, when I was a child I used to climb up here. You can't see it in the dark, but this whole area is covered with fields. My sister and I, we used to lay in these fields and watch the sky."

The man coughed and cleared his throat again. The sound of his peeing stopped and was replaced with the rustle of clothes as he adjusted everything back into place. He cleared his throat again and continued.

"When you're a child and you watch the sky, you feel like you're falling. You know what I mean. That huge expanse of blue, it's like looking over the edge of a cliff. Our little hands used to grip that grass so tight. Funny, though. We all end up in the ground eventually. Funny how eager we are to hold onto that. As a child, you feel like you can just float away."

"Because of Dallon, my sister can still look at this sky," the man said, clearing his throat.

_... hairy arm cascading across her face..._

"Dallon's a hero, I say."

_... Romana still alive and waiting for him..._

"Yeah," James said softly. "A hero."

* * *

Five days later, Crono arrived back at the castle. He talked to no-one except to give quiet orders. He decreed that William Veshin would be made head of Guardia's security forces, a position Bill accepted without ceremony. The tall muscled man who had come with Crono from Truce left the castle almost as soon as he had arrived, being noticed by many but remembered by few. Gold was loaded on carriages bound for the Poorian science institutions. Hammers rang out in the smithies, preparing weapons that would man an army larger than any the world had yet seen. Every day, the King of Guardia sat on his throne and laid down the plans for a future the Gurus of Zeal had never envisioned. Every night, Crono sat on the bed that had once belonged to him and Nadia and held the pendant that she had left behind. He squeezed it in his hand until it hurt.


	31. Part xxx

"Pass another drink this way."

With that sentence, everyone at the Morning Star pub in Medina knew that it was two hours into the afternoon. Levi One-Eye had been drinking at the pub so long that some wondered which had come first: had the grizzled old man wandered in one day to take advantage of a fairly clean establishment and decided he liked it enough to stay or had some investor seen an opportunity and built the pub around him and that creaky old chair? The end result, in either case, was that Levi was always there. He was nothing if not consistent.

Sometimes he told stories. They were strange stories. They generally had a moral to them, but that moral was often confusing or seemed to belong to another time and place. They weren't simple superstitious warnings, such as "don't walk under a tree in a storm," or "those who play on the hearthstone get burnt." Those kind of things were easy to digest. These stories were harder to think about. Sometimes it seemed like the characters in the story were the same people sitting at the bar, as if the life Levi had lived had been filled with the same faces and personalities, wherever he had come from and whatever he had once done. Because they were definitely stories about Levi's life. Maybe his own life was all he knew. Maybe it was all he felt qualified to tell. Maybe it had only been him in the story and the only other people he could populate it with were those around him. Maybe the people at the bar were the only kind of people he had ever known.

Four people sat across from Levi this morning. The first was a man with a face that seemed like it had been the site of an ancient battlefield, full as it was of pock marks. His eyes were a startling color of yellow and his hair was an oily kind of black. It had an odd shine to it that made one think of burnt grease. Half of it was pulled back into a short erratic ponytail, the rest was left to dangle in front of one eye in a half-way deliberate fashion. The others at the bar were non-descript. They didn't matter. The first man mattered because today he was telling a story. It sounded a lot like a story Levi might tell, which might have been the reason Levi was listening so intently. It went like this...

Long ago, on the beaches of Medina, a man was walking across the beach. It was a long beach, longer than the beaches now. This was so long ago, in fact, that no one in Medina knew anything existed beyond the beach. There were no Mystics in Medina, then, and the people lived in small huddles of shacks on the sand. They lived somewhat in fear, for the ocean could be dangerous and temperamental at times and tear away their little homes. Mostly, though, they lived in peace for everyone had plenty of food and they knew the secrets of straining the salt out of the water to make it good for drinking. Everyone shared with each other and the only deaths there were came from the sea and from old age. No one had their own name, they were all called "friend" or "brother" or "sister" and they all knew each other.

This is why the man was surprised when he saw someone new on the beach. It was a boy and the man did not know him. The boy had eyes that were golden like the sun setting on the sea and his hair was black like night. He watched the man approach and he didn't move away but he didn't make any signal of greeting either. The man came close and didn't know what to do. He had never had to speak with someone he didn't know. He couldn't think of what to say.

"Your name is Richard," the boy said and the man knew suddenly that he was right. The man, who now called himself Richard and knew it to be right, sat down in the beach and unshouldered his back pack. The boy watched Richard as he brought out a large piece of fish that had been cooked and wrapped in seaweed. He offered the boy some and the boy took it but he made a face when he put it in his mouth and did not ask for more.

"You should eat if you want to live," Richard said, thinking that maybe the boy had not had food for a long time and was having trouble swallowing, as those who are very hungry sometimes do.

"I have never had fish," the boy replied. "I don't like it much. Where I come from, we don't eat much besides that which grows in the ground."

Richard nodded, not really understanding. After all, he had never seen anything besides the beach and all that grew in the sand was a sharp kind of grass that made the stomache queasy if digested. He looked the boy over again, noting his strong young frame and knew that, though he was thin now, he had to have been eating more than sand-grass. But Richard didn't know what to do with this information, so he simply offered the boy another piece of fish, which he took after a moment's hesitation.

You see, the question which the man really wanted to ask of the boy was where he had come from. But this was difficult. In Richard's experience, there was the beach and there was the sea. The sea wasn't really anywhere, though. It was the place from which food came from and the place to which the people returned when they could no longer exist on the beach. It wasn't somewhere that people came from. There was further down the beach, but that was simply more beach, a place one sometimes went if they felt the need to be alone. There was the river alongside the village, which ran down from... but then, this was where the people's knowledge stopped. So you see, Richard could not ask the child from where he came, because all he knew were the few places he'd been. Yet he knew the boy had not come from these places. The concept of somewhere else was not known to the people in Medina in this age.

Unable to ask where the boy had come from, Richard could only suggest where the boy could go. He offered to take him back to his village. The boy quickly agreed and when he got to the village he knew the names of everyone there and told them what they were. Then he told the people how to make weapons out of the rocks they used to line their fire pits and the long branches they usually shaved down to make handles for their fishing nets. He showed the people that there was a land beyond the beach and the people began to argue. Anywhere the boy went, people began to fight. They used the weapons to kill each other...

Suddenly the man halted his story.

"I apologize," he said in a voice that bordered on being raspy. "But this is not a story that should be rushed."

"Then slow down!" one eager drinker responded

"I apologize," the man said again, clearing his throat without helping it. "But I'm here to see a friend. Therein lies my problem. I don't know where this friend may be. She may not even be in this town..." Suddenly the man downed the rest of his ale and placed it back on the bar, standing up. "... in which case I'm afraid I've already taken too much time here. I must continue on."

Instantly a roar of disapproval went up. Everyone started asking questions at once. Who was this friend? What did they look like? Why couldn't he stay the night while they looked around and tried to find this person? The man turned down these requests with a mild embarrassment, as if he didn't want anyone to feel put out by helping him. But he didn't leave the bar. Within minutes, he was seated again, three drinks slammed down in front of him; the courtesy of a good audience. The man gave some details about the person he was looking for... she was this high... she had this colour of hair... sometimes she went by this name. The people in the bar began to argue over the information with each other. Everyone thought they knew where she was. The man listened and only occasionally said anything. He hadn't taken his first sip of his gift drinks before a fight had broken out.

Later, no one would be able to clearly say what caused the fight. The origination had become instantly lost in the confluence of fists and raised voices. The first curse cast had something to do with the girth of the merchant's wife. The first punch thrown was almost certainly from the baker's huge hams of hands. Why the others felt a need to get involved was less clear.

Three people didn't engage. Levi continued to sit on his stool and nurse his drink, ignoring the mayhem with his general sense of consistency. Grecco, sitting near the entrance didn't fight, either. He stood up and left moments after the first blood spilled onto the hard wood floor, stopping only briefly at the door to cast a glance at the third person not fighting, the man who had been telling the story.

Grecco raised his eyebrows at the man and slightly tilted his head towards the exit, but Thanojax only smiled and stared back at him. Grecco's lip curled slightly downward, a bare sign of the deeper disgust he felt at the man; a disgust he'd felt since joining up with him back in Poore. With a sense of concern, Grecco noticed how the disgust was quickly turning into anger. Before more of the feeling could rise in him, he pushed his way past the front doors and exited into the warming sunlight of summer.

As soon as he lost sight of Thanojax, Grecco felt like he could think again. He continued to move away from the bar, though. He wouldn't feel comfortable until he could no longer hear the muted curses and cries from within the bar. He tried not to think of Thanojax's greasy hair and his yellow eyes. Even the image of the man could irrationally infuriate him. Thanojax, Grecco had found, had that kind of effect on people.


	32. Part xxxi

The hillside just beyond the border of Medina was dotted with camp fires, the signs of some pagan festival being observed by the village at the hill's bottom. Grecco didn't know the details but he was glad for its existence, for it meant that their own fire would go unnoticed. Even the heartiest of travelers grew tired of sleeping in the cold and eating cold dinners. Grecco sat forward and gave the spit a half=turn, rotating the leg of the boar he'd caught earlier so that the still-red meat began to sizzle and turn pink over the flames.

Grecco sat back again, licking a bit of meat juice off of his fingers with a quiet smack of his lips. Whatever kind of celebration was occurring, it was a peaceful one. An occasional snatch of song drifted up the hillside, born on a north wind that rippled the grass against his bare feet, their bladed tips still wet from the afternoon's rain. The songs sounded slow and nostalgic; they were the songs of people remembering things they had either been a part of or told about so often that they felt they had been a part of them. Grecco idly tried to catch words, but it was an impossible task. Their fire was the highest on the hill; by the time the words reached them, they were merely murmurs: sounds without meaning.

Across from him, Thanojax was squeezing water out of his shirt and laying it out to dry near the fire. His back was to Grecco and the muscles that framed his spine rippled with every movement he made. It was shocking, when Thanojax revealed his skin, to see that he was as muscled and bulky as Grecco, if not bulkier. He had a gladiator's physique that somehow became slim and lanky when hidden under clothing. It was his face, Grecco had decided, which disguised this. It was a long, gaunt face, with that horrible greasy hair and those pale yellow eyes that spoke of sickness of the liver. It was a weak face; an ill face. One would hardly suppose that it rested on shoulders as solid as a slab of marble, leading to arms with muscles twining up and down them like vines on tree trunks.

As Thanojax worked, he talked and though his voice was quiet, Grecco heard it clearly over the sparks and crackles of the burning branches. He was telling stories again and since there was no one else there, Grecco had to assume he was talking to him. After a few sentences, Grecco realized he was still telling the story from the day before, at the inn...

The boy who came to the beach soon became a young man. Though people still fell to fighting around him and there was much strife in those times, he was now a great leader who inspired fear and obedience in his followers. Under his direction, the small village had become a city and its people a civilization. They had not only moved inland to find and conquer other tribes, but they had also built great ships, the construction of which is now lost to our knowledge. With these ships, they had nothing to fear from even the greatest of waves and so the Boy King (as he had come to be known) had began to spread his influence to other lands. Soon there was nowhere that did not pay homage to the Boy King.

However, there was one man in the world who was free, for he did not have a home and thus could not be owned. This was Tipasa the Wanderer and his duty in life was to see as many lands as he could and to never stop moving. Thus, he never stayed in one place long enough to fall under the power of the Boy King's laws. Like a child who has never been denied anything will fixate on the one thing he cannot have, so did the Boy King become obsessed with Tipasa and with the thought of possessing him.

One day the Boy King came up with a plan to trap Tipasa. Taking the guise of a merchant, he wandered to his busiest port and set up a shop. He filled it with many magical and beautiful things. After a very short time, word of the merchant spread so that everyone in the land knew of him and yearned for a glimpse of his merchandise. Then the Boy King took his Greed and his Vanity, gave them human form, and sent them to retrieve Tipasa.

When Greed and Vanity arrived with a carriage for Tipasa, he was very grateful, for he did indeed wish to see the merchant's shop but on foot the trip would be long and arduous. Still, he was sure that the journey would take him many years, for he was a world away. But Vanity has no substance and so the carriage that held him was light as air and could travel a hundred miles in one day. Then Tipasa wondered if he would survive the journey for the roads were wild and dangerous in those days and monsters were quick to attack travelers. But nothing is more powerful than a man's Greed and so they passed without harm to the busy city where the Boy King ruled.

In three days they had reached the pier from the other side of the world and Tipasa got his first look at the merchant and his wares. Immediately the merchant greeted him and praised the legend of his name. He placed a beautiful wine jar on his table, full of the headiest wines, brewed across the sea by an exotic people. He placed next to it an incredible robe of many colours, spun in silk so delicate that to touch it felt like touching the air upon a calm day. These gifts were offered to Tipasa free of charge, in recognition of his acclaim. But Tipasa had three Gifts of his own which were his alone to use. The first of these Gifts was the power to see things as they truly were. When he turned his vision upon the wares offered him he saw that the wine was honeyed poison and that the silk robe had the sharpest of thorns woven into it. Then he turned his gaze upon the merchant and saw beyond his aged facade the young pale face and the eager fervent eyes of the Boy King. He saw the Boy King's desire to possess his life and he now understood the nature of the two companions which had brought him so swiftly to the Boy King's side.

Tipasa accepted the Boy King's gifts, but he did not keep them. The wine he gave to Greed, who eagerly sucked it down, and the robe he presented to Vanity, who could not help but wrap it around his delicate shoulders. Soon the two were writhing in anguish upon the ground and the Boy King banished them, though the act caused him great suffering. Then he removed his own disguise, knowing now that his ruse had failed, and bowed low to Tipasa, offering him his respect. Though Tipasa had just injured him, the Boy King refused to strike out at the Wanderer, for he was impressed by the man's cunning and more than ever sought to control him and put such cunning to work for his own means. And so...

"You're staring again," Thanojax said suddenly, turning around and casually feeding a branch into the fire. It must have been one of the few dry pieces of wood they had, for it caught immediately with a great cracking sound and a flare of light and heat that seemed to please Thanojax. He laid his shirt down in front of the fire with one of those smiles he had that seemed to linger unpleasantly when one shut their eyes.

Grecco found, to his great discomfort, that he was indeed staring at Thanojax, his mouth slightly ajar and his mind emptied of all thoughts except for the details of the story Thanojax had been telling. Coming back to his senses was like waking before he was ready; Grecco had the same cold sense of anxiety that he used to get as a child when he knew his father had just walked in with the dawn, fresh off a long night of drinking, with rage in his eyes and his fists clenched, his voice calling out loudly for Grecco.

"Where were you earlier?" Grecco asked, pushing his memories to the back of his mind, shifting his position on the wet ground so that he was closer to the fire where the ground had dried out more, and reaching again for the spit.

"Getting information, as usual." Thanojax picked up his black cloak as he said this and wrapped it around his shoulders without fastening it. It was a strange kind of cloak, unique in its design. It hung lower on the right side than it did on the left and curved in towards the waist, giving it the shape of an hourglass that had been smashed open on one side. Though it hugged Thanojax's waist and sides, still the back was made with bunches of loose material, so that during a wind it flared out dramatically behind him.

It was the kind of outfit that you wore to be noticed in. Grecco didn't like it.

"So, what did you discover?" Grecco asked, feeling slightly annoyed now. He was still unnerved by how easily he'd been lost in the story. He wasn't in the mood for Thanojax's empty answers.

But Thanojax didn't answer at all and Grecco thought, he hasn't discovered anything. He's failed to find her once again. The realization gave him a large degree of pleasure.

"So that's another lost lead," he said. "On to the next tiny village, then? I'm beginning to feel a bit like Tipasa."

Thanojax seemed to think that the comparison was funny; he smiled with a quick twist of his lips. But he still didn't say anything. His eyes watched the skin of the meat bubbling and crackling over the fire; Grecco had acquired a jar of honey in the village and had poured it over the meat; it was now putting off a smell like clover.

"It's becoming more difficult to write reports to the King," Grecco said. "Crono, I mean. I have to imagine he's getting tired of hearing about bar fights and dalliances with young wenches." Grecco didn't say it, but he suspected that today's "information gathering" had had something to do with the latter.

Thanojax finally stirred, raising a long fingered hand to scratch under his chin as he murmured in Grecco's general direction. "I don't think that the King likes me very much."

"Smart man."

"Ah, so you don't like me either?"

"I try not to think about it."

"If it was up to him, I wouldn't be here."

"If only."

"But he didn't send me."

"No?"

"Bill pays my wages."

"Right. I'd forgotten," Grecco said, who hadn't.

"I like these little festivals," Thanojax said, a wistful tone to his voice. He reached into one of the coat's pocket and began to fiddle around with something. Grecco was used to this fidgety behavior; whether rubbing his chin or playing around in his pockets, Thanojax could never keep his hands still.

"I'm supposed to be sending a bird back to the King tonight," Grecco said. "He'll want to know that we've failed."

"Failed?"

"Yes, failed," Grecco growled the words, finally beginning to lose his patience. "For the sixth time, failed. Six villages since we left the mainland and not a trace of her. Remind me again why we didn't go to that orphanage? The King said they knew each other, that it would be the perfect place for her to seek help."

"It wasn't necessary," Thanojax hand continued to shuffle around in his coat. He pulled something out and began to move it between his fingers, but Grecco couldn't see what it was. It looked like a scrap of food.

"You should give a thought towards the King's coffers," Grecco said after taking a deep breath. "They only go so far. I don't want to be kept from earning my keep." He got closer to the fire and tried to feel as casual as he sounded.

"Like I said, my keep is paid from other sources," Thanojax said. Grecco stared at the man and wondered if he had actually met the King. He didn't think so. Grecco was not someone who courted fear and yet after what he'd seen in Truce he hadn't been able to shake his fear from him. Crono had thus far given him but one mission and it was not the King's generosity he hesitated to test, but rather his wrath if he did not receive word of his lost wife soon.

"Do you know, there was this man who was missing an eye at the dance tonight?" Thanojax went on, still playing with the thing between his fingers. "He was asking questions about you."

"The man we saw at the inn yesterday?"

"Yes, that one."

"What did you tell him?"

"Do you assume I was the one he was asking?"

"A lucky guess, I'm sure."

"I told him he should share in our fire tonight."

"You think he knows something?"

"Maybe."

"I already talked to him yesterday. He said he didn't know anything."

"He was lying."

"How do you know?"

"He told me." As he said this, Thanojax held up the object he'd been playing with, squeezing it softly between his thumb and forefinger. It was a circle, Grecco saw now, with bits of something like string hanging off the ends. Thanojax's fingers were red and it was not from the firelight. He was holding a man's eye.

"He told me so much," Thanojax said, rolling the eye over his knuckles so that it left a dark stain behind it. "You didn't seriously think the Queen would shop for her own groceries, did you? It's classic. Royalty seems to know only one way to run away from home: with help."

"How did you know it was Medina?" Grecco demanded, trying not to look at the eye rolling across Thanojax's palm.

"A lucky guess, I'm sure," Thanojax answered, his yellow pupils seeking Grecco's reaction from across the flames.

"The meat is done," Grecco said, no longer hungry.

"Yummy," Thanojax replied. He giggled and with a flick of his wrist tossed the eye into the fire where it ignited with a small popping sound.


	33. Part xxxii

The Boy King bowed lowed before Tipasa and praised him for escaping his trap. He was sincere in his praise. Since Tipasa had long ago made a vow to hear any words spoken in sincerity, he listened and when the Boy King invited him to his palace, he accepted the offer though he was gravely afraid and sure that still the Boy King meant to work him harm.

The Boy King's palace was a single massive tower that rose higher than any other in the land. It's base was one mile around and it was built on the spot where the village had been; the village that had first found the Boy when he was not yet King. The waves had long since conquered the beach, but they could not fell the tower, though it's bottom floors were entirely underwater. It was held up by the will of the Boy King and even the sea's power could not match his will.

When Tipasa arrived at the tower, he was greeted by a pair of hideous guards. All of the servants in the tower were monsters. Just as the Boy King sought to possess all he encountered so, too, did he desire to fashion his own life and these were his attempts. He secretly hated them, for he desired to create things as beautiful as he thought himself, yet all that came from his efforts reflected the darkness of his heart.

The Boy King took his meals in the highest room of the tower, from which he could see the entire land and administer his judgments. Here he and Tipasa supped and it was the best meal of Tipasa's life. The wine tasted like his childhood and the meat the possibilities of his future. Still, Tipasa ate and drink little, not wishing to become intoxicated by the Boy King's powers and thus fall under his spell. So as not to arouse suspicion, he encouraged his host to tell stories of his greatness, a task the Boy King took to with pleasure, for his own stories were the only stories he owned and it had been long since he had shared them. The more he talked, the more vain he grew and Tipasa continued to encourage him, finally wondering aloud if there was anything the Boy King could not do.

"It is said," Tipasa mused, pretending to take a sip of his wine. "That this tower is made of the strongest material on earth. Surely even you cannot harm it?"

The Boy King scoffed at this. "I built the tower," he said. "I can just as easily destroy it."

And he raised a hand and pointed at the wall behind Tipasa. Instantly it fell apart, the stone melting into dust that blew away in the wind raging around the tower. Tipasa nodded but didn't look impressed.

"Well I suppose any man has the power to tear down his own home," he said. "And a good hammer can achieve what you just have. But what of this wind? It blows so incessantly around your tower that I wonder if you fear to tell it to be silent?"

The Boy King did not answer but began to work his pale fingers around his crystal wine glass. As he touched it here and there, the glass began to reform into a bottle. The Boy King held the bottle to his mouth and blew into it and the wind outside followed his breath and was sucked into the bottle, at which point the Boy King closed it over and the wind was trapped.

The Boy King looked expectantly at Tipasa, but the wanderer was yawning and picking with obvious boredom at the food on his plate.

"The wind is a fickle creature and easily tamed," Tipasa said. "I myself have bested it many times with a warm cloak. But what of these waves? I've heard it said that you came from the sea and that you can never leave its grasp."

The Boy King laughed at this. "If I stay by the sea, it is only to taunt it," he said. "Someday I shall take my kingdom and go somewhere that it can never reach!"

Then, to prove his point, the Boy King spoke a word and the earth obeyed him, ripping free one of its islands from the grasp of the sea and sending it high into the air where it continued to hang in the sky as easily and surreally as if it were a painting someone had hung on an invisible hook.

Now Tipasa began to seem impressed. But still he doubted his host's power.

"Truly you have command over the elements," Tipasa admitted. "But if I desire to escape the sea, I need not live in the sky. I can simply travel a few miles inland where the sea has no power. Any man with two working legs can do this!"

Now the Boy King began to grow annoyed. He did not like being compared to "any man with two working legs." Losing his patience, he threatened Tipasa with a thousand different deaths. But Tipasa did not heed his threats, for he knew that the Boy King would never kill him before proving his power. So he continued to look unimpressed and listened to the long details of death and pain that the Boy King described.

"Any man can kill," Tipasa said, when the Boy King had run out of his list of tortures. "But it is a rare man who can create and nurture life."

Now for the first time that evening the Boy King hesitated. When he didn't answer, Tipasa guessed his mind and seemed shocked.

"Why, surely the King who can control the winds will have no difficulty creating something of beauty! What of your great talents? Surely they must shine like a jewel if given form!"

So eager was the Boy King to impress Tipasa that he listened to him and gathered his power into an orb. He placed it on the table in front of the Wanderer with no reluctance. Tipasa turned his blessed vision upon the orb and now was truly taken aback. The orb was a thing of pure beauty and wonder. It was the first magic in the world and, until this moment, it had belonged solely to the Boy King. Separated from him it represented the potential for great good.

It has been said that Tipasa had three gifts, the second of which was the gift of theft, given to him so that he could survive without starving during his long wandering. Now he reached out with hands that were faster than even the Boy King could see and he grabbed both the orb containing magic and the crystal holding the wind. Then he turned from the table and sprinted for the hole in the tower wall.

As Tipasa leaped from the tower, the Boy King reached out a long fingered hand and grabbed for him. But all he caught hold of was Tipasa's stories. The stories had been Tipasa's third gift and, like any of his gifts, he could give them away. Now, though they were his favorite of his gifts, he knew that to hold onto them would mean his death for the Boy King was slowly pulling him back into the tower. So Tipasa gave away his stories and left the Boy King holding them while he fell into open air.

It was a mile down to the hard rocks of the beach. The waves roared with delight, for they thought they Boy King was falling towards them. Tipasa tried to speak to them, to quell their anger, but his voice was pressed to the back of his throat by the speed of his fall. So he smashed the crystal bottle and the wind burst forth with such power that it carried him far out of the reach the waves, depositing him at last on the piece of barren rock that the Boy King had lifted from the sea.

Now safe, Tipasa turned the orb once in his hands and the floating island erupted with life. Trees burst from cracks in the ground. Rivers cascaded down dry mountains and poured over the edge of the island in shimmering waterfalls that evaporated before they hit the land far below. Then Tipasa turned the orb again and birds flew from the tree tops and fish leapt in the rivers. Tipasa called the island Zeal, which meant "home" in the old tongue and realized that his days of wandering had come to an end.

The Boy King's tower collapsed into the sea, for the King had given away his power and with it his palace could no longer hold against the anger of the waves. The land shook mightily as it fell. The Boy King had shaped the earth with his magic, but it was free now to choose its own path. The continents ripped apart and the long beach was no more. Thus, with their common enemy gone, the earth and the sea began to fight and the world began to freeze and die in the wake of their battle.

"We're here."

Grecco jolted forward in his saddle and his senses came back to life. Sound was the first of the senses to return. He could hear the sounds of the farmland through which they were riding. The wind rustled the long stalks of the spring crops in an indeterminate rhythm. An owl let out a baleful sigh that was answered moments later by a similar call. Ghetz recalled that the King had ordered Fiona's forest burned two weeks ago and he wondered idly if this pair had made the migration across the sea, much as Thanojax and he had.

Thanojax. The name brought him back to the present. The last thing Grecco had said was how the Queen had chosen an opportune hiding place for herself. The farmland was flat for many acres and the crops grown thick enough that horses could not pass through them but were forced to go around. On horseback they could not fail to be spotted by anyone who happened to be looking for trespassers. Grecco had suggested they leave the horses behind and approach on foot. Thanojax had started telling his damn story and now...

"We're here," Thanojax repeated from his mount a few feet to Grecco's left.

Grecco saw the farmhouse now. It was a two story affair that managed to be large without being pretentious. Grecco would have called it cute had he not known why they were headed there. It was barely 400 yards in front of them, set on a slight bump in the land that qualified as a hill when compared to the flatness around it. A single light glowed in a downstairs window. The shadows cast on the violet curtains by the light revealed no signs of movement. Grecco cursed. He felt completely exposed on his horse, with the moon full and bright and illuminating the fields in a silvery glow.

"You should learn how to end your stories," he said to Thanojax.

"Stories never end," came the reply.

Grecco didn't answer. A rifle blast erupted from the inside of the house and the dirt exploded into a crater behind Thanojax's horse. They'd been seen.


	34. Part xxxiii

Another explosion broke the night's calm and Grecco felt his ear vibrate as a round metal bullet passed only inches from his head. It had been traveling fast enough to pierce conventional armour.

"That's a Poorian rifle," Grecco said, his voice calm. It was no use getting worked up about an inevitable death. He turned his head to Thanojax and spoke with an air of certainty. "We didn't come equipped to fight this kind of battle."

Thanojax started to say something but his words were cut off by a blast that sprayed dirt into Grecco's face. A second later, Grecco felt his own mount's spirit break. With a tremor, the brown and white steed began to pace and shake his head. Before the dirt had hit the ground again, the horse was bucking. Grecco knew better than to try to hold on. He pushed himself backwards and dropped off the back of the horse, landing hard on his knees. He stayed frozen for only an instant, his eyes searching past the horse's flailing form to find the house. The next flash of fire drew his eyes instantly to the upstairs window. For a brief instant a form was illuminated there. He caught a glimpse of long hair... was it a woman? Another flash of fire and Grecco decided he should move. He hadn't gone more than a foot before a horrific sound nearly split his eardrums.

Someone who has never heard a horse scream cannot understand the horror behind that sound. It's worse than hearing a human scream. It's almost a mechanical noise, like the piercing screech of metal being scraped together, but there's a wetness to it, the wetness of someone coughing fluid out of their lungs. Grecco heard the scream building in the steed, shuddering its way out of his throat. Then the steed collapsed on his side with a ghastly sigh The animal's head was twisted at an odd angle, one wide black eye staring at Grecco above lips pulled back and flecked with saliva as it became deathly silent. The horse's legs were held stiffly away from his body and they twitched with each hurried breath he took. Blood was clearly visible in the moonlight, pouring onto the grass from a small hole in his stomache. Every time the head tried to move towards the wound there was a scraping sound of bone against bone. Several of the bones in his neck had been broken by the fall. It was incredible how long something so broken could stay alive.

Whoever was in the house fired again and Grecco threw himself behind the body of his horse. Even as Grecco disappeared behind its bulk, a bullet slammed into the dead body. Grecco felt the brown and white skin ripple with the impact. Blood sprayed into the air and rained down into his long black hair, glueing it to his face. A thick strand fell across his lip and he tasted salt and horse flesh. He kept his body low. Laying parallel to the horse, he pressed his back against the still dying animal, trying to provide as little a target as possible. He cursed the brightness of the moon, but he did so without conviction. As always happened to him in a fight, he had become filled with a feeling of dead calm. It was hard to build up any emotion. Instead, he was consumed with memories. A voice, his mother's voice, was speaking to him...

_"When your long journey_  
_reaches its end..._  
_the heavy burden that_  
_rests upon your shoulders_  
_will be lifted at last."_

... and he cursed the moon again, but really his thoughts were on the poem and the meaning he had never been able to decipher. Thanojax had disappeared from the battlefield; Grecco heard the canter of hooves coming from somewhere, but all that told him was that Thanojax's mount was fleeing; it said little about whether its rider was fleeing with it.

The sound of silence was as loud as the gunshots that had come before it. Grecco knew that the gunner was either waiting for him to come out or was reloading. He thought over his options. If the gunner was reloading, then this was Grecco's chance to make a run for the house. The gun would still be deadly in close quarters, but so would Grecco's fists. If the woman was waiting for him to come out, though, then Grecco wouldn't take more than five steps before being shot down, not under such a bright moon. The gunner had already proven that she had skill. Idly, Grecco wondered how they had planned this so badly. To attack on a clear night and to approach the house without cover was an unthinkable error. Even using horses that hadn't been given time to get used to their scent; these were amateur mistakes. Had Thanojax been all talk? Grecco wouldn't be surprised, except that Bill had hired him. Grecco had seen Bill a lot after entering the King's employ. He had gotten the impression that the counselor could tell when he was being lied to. Nothing stayed hidden from those steel blue eyes.

Grecco forced himself to rise while his mind was distracted by other thoughts. They hadn't planned the attack so far, so why start now? This was the last thought to brush across his mind before every sense became a blaring alarm, shooting dire warnings at his brain as every muscle in his body expected to be ripped apart by bullets. Nothing happened on the first step. The second step carried him in a sprinter's gait a full five yards from the horse's body. By the third step he was too far from cover to turn back, but he still had nearly 400 yards to travel before he'd reach the house. Odd memories were running through his mind. He was remembering snippets of conversations shared with people who were barely more than strangers to him. He remembered a sobbing boxer back in Choras whose nose he had helped set when it was broken in the young man's first fight. He recalled the one-eyed man in the bar; he recalled the way his eye had boiled when Thanojax had tossed it into the fire. He had a fleeting image of Crono holding his crown when he had forgotten that Grecco was there. The King had looked exhausted. This last thought was cut off when a flash of fire erupted from a downstairs window of the house, only 200 yards directly in front of him. The gunner hadn't reloaded; she had moved. At that range, she couldn't miss.

It had been a long time since Grecco had been faced with death. He'd thought that he'd been courting it for the last decade, but faced with that flash of light and the burst of smoke, he realized he'd only been chasing its shadow. Suddenly the calm was gone. The flash of fire was all there was, then, and Grecco knew that he was about to die. Grecco felt the air shift as the bullet came at his chest. His loose black shirt suddenly felt like a poor choice for this night's mission. The horse's blood across his face smelled stronger and grossly sweeter than it had before. Grecco didn't want that to be the last thing he ever smelled.

The revelation that he did not want to die was almost as shocking as the realization that he was still alive. Grecco questioned how the bullet had missed, but no answer came; he continued to sprint, feeling his muscles contracting and expanding with each pounding stride. He changed his direction slightly as he approached the window. He rolled one shoulder in front of his chest, pulling his body into a tight curl, and launched himself at the house, aiming not for the open window that the gunner stood at but the closed one next to it.

It felt like hitting stone. His shoulder exploded into dancing lights of pain that spotted his vision and ripped away his breath. For a moment the window held, then it buckled inward, spitting him in a shower of glass into a living room lit only by the sputtering flame of a single candle. Grecco felt razors of glass scrape his skin as rolled across the wooden floor, crashing into a chair and slamming against a small table. The table fell and the candle on it spun to the ground, splashing hot wax across Grecco's cheek and hands, which were drawn up to protect his face. His knuckles burned briefly and then stiffened as the wax hardened over them. The candle rolled across the floor, coming to rest a few feet away against the bare feet of the long haired gunner. Grecco saw the woman turning towards him, the gun in her hands; pivoting on her heels to aim its barrel at his chest.

Grecco pushed himself up with his heels, using the strength of his body to catapult himself across the room. Glass fell off of him with a sound like water. Two steps brought him to the gunner. His right hand clamped over the barrel of the gun and pushed it away from him. His left hand sought out the finger on the gun's trigger. The two of them wrestled with the weapon, reminding Grecco absurdly of a game he used to play as a child, where one child would try to steal a stick from the other. Grecco had always won the game. He won it now, but unexpectedly. The gunner released her grip on the gun and reached down to her waist, pulling free a knife: he recognized the flash of metal in the light of the candle underneath his feet. Never assume you've taken your opponent's only weapon: another amateur's mistake. For the second time that night, Grecco saw his death coming at him. The final blow he landed was an act of desperation. He couldn't have expected it to accomplish anything. Planting a fist in someone's side might injure them, might turn the tide in your favor over a long boxing match, but it won't save you from knife sliding between your ribs.

The knife pierced his thin black shirt and cut into his tanned flesh. He felt pain ricochet its way through his nerves and blood pool in a warm flow across his torso, trapped between flesh and cotton. But the knife's thrust was weak, weaker than it should have been. Grecco pulled away from the knife and it slid cleanly out. He brought back his hand to knock the knife away and its owner did not protest. Something besides the knife shimmered in the candlelight: a large piece of glass protruding from the side of the gunner. Grecco wondered when the glass had entered his hand and what instinct had caused him to wield it as a weapon. He looked at his palm. It was covered in blood; not only from the gunner's wound, but from two twin cuts where the triangular glass had bitten into his skin as he gripped it. Even the sight of the cuts did not awaken a memory of holding the glass, however. Instead Grecco experienced a rush of fear. Who had he stabbed? Was this "her" blood on his hands?

The gunner sagged forward into his arms, the long-barreled rifle dropping from her hand to the ground with a hollow clatter. Grecco caught her awkwardly as her knees sagged and her head fell forward. Their foreheads briefly rested against each other and Grecco, for the first time, looked into her eyes. He caught his breath.

"I know you," Grecco said.

It wasn't a woman. Though his black hair had grown longer, Grecco recognized the rugged features of the soldier who had been stationed in Truce. Samdel had hated the man and not entirely because he was a soldier in charge of prisoning their freedoms. The soldier had been too much like Samdel in all the wrong ways. He was handsome, charismatic, and able-bodied. If there was something he lacked, it was Samdel's cynicism and short sightedness. For Samdel it must have been like looking into a mirror and seeing someone better reflected there.

Ghetz. That was his name. Ghetz. Now that he'd remembered it, Grecco doubted he'd ever be able to push it from his mind.

Ghetz's eyes looked into his. He opened his lips and they were so close that Grecco could see they were pink with blood. The blood had bubbles in it. Grecco had cut open one of his lungs.

"Safe?"

The word struggled its way out of Ghetz's mouth. It was a question Grecco didn't know how to answer. Ghetz's body was sagging in Grecco's arms. His eyes alone refused to yield, keeping their hold on Grecco's face. Grecco nodded slowly, not understanding what he was agreeing to. Ghetz's eyes softened. He shuddered once and died.

Grecco didn't let the body drop, but bent at the knees, carefully lowering it to the ground. He didn't bother with anything elaborate. He closed the eyes and moved away. Before he stood up, without knowing why, he picked up the rifle. It was, as he'd thought, a Poorian model. He didn't know a lot about guns, but he recognized its main features. Only three months ago, Poore had developed a rifle with a top-loading clip that fed the bullets to the hammer, removing the need to reload after every shot. This rifle had two such clips, sitting side by side. Judging from the even count in each clip, Grecco determined that it alternated between the clips as it fired. That would make it an incredibly fast weapon, compared with other guns. What was more, the clips held twelve two inch shells in total and still had three shots left, which meant he'd been lucky when he'd broken cover. Had Ghetz not been changing position from the upstairs to the downstairs window, he would've had Grecco for sure.

He should've had me anyway, Grecco thought as he remembered the shot he had practically charged into.

A spluttering hiss came from the candle. Grecco bent down again and picked it up carefully, minding his injured hand. The candle had continued to burn on its side, so that the wax had been worn down into a sloping shape. It forced the flame to give off an uneven light and Grecco found it a difficult task to make out the details of the room. He swept the candle back and forth as he walked around, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but finding things all the same. They were brief glimpses... a half burned letter in the fireplace signed by a man named "James," a bag on the table filled with vegetables and other groceries, the shimmer of a windowed cabinet filled with more dishware than one person would need...

... but they told a story all the same.

It was an L-shaped room, with Ghetz's body laying beside the table and the fireplace at the cross of the "L," and a dark staircase on its longer tip. Grecco almost ran into the couch opposite the fireplace; he'd been examining a framed photo above the squat piece of furniture. The shot was taken from a hill which overlooked a seaside town. Grecco was a far cry from an art historian, but he had a secret fondness for art nonetheless. In his opinion, this photographer wasn't particularly skilled. The picture was slightly overexposed, so that the sky, instead of representing the full, rich, day it must have been, instead looked grainy and faded. The subject, too, was non-existent, unless the town was the subject in a general sort of way. Yet, the photographer had done something right. The photograph captured, maybe by accident, the peacefulness of the town so that even though the photo as a whole bored the eye, it stimulated a calm in Grecco that felt oddly familiar. Then he recognized the place. It was Truce; Truce before the fall.

Grecco stared for a moment later at the photograph, disturbed that viewing it now caused an unsettling chill to settle in between his shoulders. He turned away and found himself staring at something flowery. A discarded dress with a petal print lay over the back of the couch. It was a light blue colour and it looked perfectly uncreased and layered with a thin film of dust. Grecco ran his finger over the material, finding it less soft than he had expected. He pictured the woman that would've fit into its tight caress.

His body reacted to the sound before his mind did, so that he was turning towards the staircase before he knew why. The candle light illuminated the edges of a small figure halted on the final step on the stairs, one foot already pressing against the soft carpet, littered with glass; the other was poised on the creaking stair that had given her away. The little girl, for it was a little girl, stared at him. He could feel her eyes even though he couldn't see them. He realized, after a moment, that the candle must be illuminating his features better than it was revealing hers, but he made no movement to douse the light or to otherwise halt her examination of his face. When she spoke, the voice was innocence described.

"I know you," she said.


	35. Part xxxiv

"I know you," the girl repeated, then looked idly around the room as if, having affirmed that she knew Grecco, she need no longer be concerned with his presence. She saw Ghetz's body on the floor and came down off the stairs, peering through the darkness at the shape. Then she froze.

"Oh," was all she said. Grecco had never before known that one word, spoken so calmly, could contain so much shock and horror. He moved with a sense of urgency, placing the candle down on the table and striding over to kneel next to the young girl.

"How did you come to be here?" he asked, putting one hand on her shoulder so that she looked away from the body and stared at him instead.

"James wanted me to," she said, glancing briefly at Grecco's calloused hand and then back into his face. "He said he wouldn't be able to help any more. He said he was going. I miss him," she added in a softer voice and her eyes flitted back to the darkness where Ghetz's body lie. "Samdel is dead, too. Are you sorry to hear it?"

Grecco knew, then, where he'd seen the girl. This was Samdel's half-sister, the little waif that had liked James and Ghetz so much. It had infuriated Samdel that she spent so much time with the soldiers. Grecco used to wonder why Samdel didn't just tell her to stay away from the soldiers. Being so close to her now, Grecco understood. Anyone looking at the child would want to protect her and give her whatever she needed to be happy. It went beyond the fact that she was cute and young. She was very young, in fact, yet she had spoken to Grecco with none of the usual stuttering and lisping of a child. Her voice had held instead an easy casualness and fluidity that spoke of familiarity with words. More than that, her demeanor demonstrated the surety of someone who knew exactly what they wanted to say.

"I don't think that I am sorry," Grecco admitted.

"I think I believe you," the girl said after a moment. "But that doesn't make it right."

Her eyes had the same confidence as her voice. They were emerald green and she held them wider than other people, so that the full circle of the iris was visible. Her eyebrows arched down elegantly towards her nose, giving her the appraising stare of a Sunday shopper very seriously considering whether or not the product she is looking at is worth the cost.

"Gregoire died, too," she continued. "And father. James has gone back to the mountains with Jessica and Dallon. They think they are going to die. They have to move and it isn't safe for a child. They wanted Ghetz to go, but he said it was safe here."

"Child..."

"My name isRomana."

"Romana, was there anyone else here? Someone staying with Ghetz? A woman?"

"The woman in the photo? No, she had gone. Ghetz said she had gone."

"What photo? Where is the photo, Romana?"

She shook off his hand and walked to the body. Grecco didn't try to stop her. She bent down and began to search in Ghetz's pockets. When she pulled free the little photograph, she handed it out for Grecco to take. He did so and she stayed where she was, crouched next to Ghetz, her fragile body shaking. She might have been crying silently; in the darkness, he couldn't be sure.

Grecco's fingers felt a sharp crease in the corner of the photo where someone's thumb had pinched it. The photo must have been looked at many times since it was taken and yet, as Grecco held it under the candle at the table, he was surprised to see how carefully it had been preserved. Though it had rested in Grecco's pocket, it had never been folded or creased beyond that tiny indentation. Grecco smoothed out the edge unconsciously as he examined the scene. Whenever it had been taken, it had been a blessed day. The sun's warmth blossomed out of every corner of the image. It sifted fingers through the wheat that made up the background of the shot. It rubbed roses into the cheeks of the woman who was the subject of the photo. It played in the blondes of her long hair. The only place it could not touch were her eyes, which remained hidden behind closed lids, casting suspicion on the honesty of her smile.

Queen Nadia had been looking away from the photographer when the picture was taken. It passed as a profile shot, though the same inexperience was evident here that was present in the photo of Truce; also the same luck. The poor choice of position was the same mistake that allowed the sun to shine so intensely into the lens and flood the picture with a feeling of warmth. A more accomplished photographer would have asked the Queen to pose and, in doing so, would've ended up with something much more regal and much less revealing. This was a picture that made Grecco feel that, even as he had failed in his mission, he had nonetheless found the Queen.

His thoughts were interrupted by a mechanical groan. The front door opened with a whining, slow, creak and someone entered with all the presence of a wraith. The night was not cold and yet Grecco felt the warmth that had filled him a moment ago sucked away as he recognized Thanojax's lanky form and unusual gliding gait. The man moved slowly, one hand supporting his other elbow. He shuffled without a word towards the table and suddenly Grecco was glad he was still holding the rifle. Grecco stood up involuntarily as Thanojax came into the range of the candle's light and lowered the gun to point at his chest. Thanojax looked terrible. His face was whiter than usual, which made it so white that he might have been wearing a layer of make up, like stage actors put on before a show. His black hair clung to his forehead in sweaty clumps and his eyes had sunk into their sockets. The arm he supported had a grotesquely broken wrist. The bones nearest to the base of the wrist had either snapped or become dislocated. They did not puncture the skin, but pressed against it so that there was a mound of flesh sticking out at an odd angle. Grecco had seen many bad injuries but something about Thanojax's full appearance, his general haggardness and greasiness, made this one seem the worst.

Thanojax's eyes focused on the gun in Grecco's hands and he licked his lips. His tongue left a spread of pink against his lips that spoke of a bloody mouth.

"You're alive," Thanojax said without surprise but with a disturbing amount of disappointment. "Shirt's ruined, though," he pointed out, his uninjured hand leaving his arm to reach shaking fingers towards a bullet-sized hole in Grecco's shirt. Grecco took a step back and Thanojax stretched his jaw in something that resembled an attempt at smiling.

"Damn horse knocked me off," he continued. "Broke my arm. Hurts like hell. Maybe you could snap it back into place for me?" He paused. "Maybe not. Is there anything to drink in here? I thought I saw the glint of a bottle on that cabinet by the door. Should go see." He stayed where he was. "At least it's a warm night. I don't feel guilty for being in a cold sweat." He collapsed in the chair Grecco had abandoned.

Grecco listened to this diatribe in silence, unable to take his eyes away from Thanojax's form. Thanojax was an actor in the spotlight of the candle, interacting with the objects of his scene (a broken wrist, an empty chair, a shadowed liquor cabinet) while Grecco watched from the audience. Suddenly Grecco remembered he wasn't the only member of that audience.

"Who is that?" Thanojax asked suddenly as his eyes flicked to a spot over Grecco's shoulder. His yellow pupils dilated as he tried to see into the darkness.

"It's just a child. Not our problem," Grecco added quickly with a rising sense of anxiety.

"I beg the differ," Thanojax said. He started to get up, wincing as he lifted his wrist from the table. "I don't intend to leave any loose ends."

"She could tell us where the Queen has gone..."

"Have you asked her?"

"I didn't get the chance." Grecco didn't dare hesitate with his answer. He felt that he was on the verge of failing an important test.

"I hope, for her sake, that she doesn't know anything."

Thanojax found his feet and glided past Grecco towards the girl. Grecco watched him advance on her and his finger twitched on the trigger of the rifle.

"Do you know where the Queen has gone, little one?"

"She doesn't..."

"Did the Queen play with you? Did she tell you stories?"

A long fingered hand reached forward, groping the darkness. The broken wrist remained pitifully curled against Thanojax's broad chest.

"I'll tell you a story and you can tell me what you've _seen._"

The gun clattered to the ground. Grecco knew, as it fell, that he'd lost control. Some part of his mind said he should never have dropped it; that he should have aimed it at Thanojax's back and pulled the trigger until the chamber was empty. His words, _I hope she doesn't know anything_, had sent thoughts racing through his mind. Bill had hired Thanojax, not Crono. Thanojax had delayed their journey, then gone straight as an arrow to where the Queen was hiding. He had led them to the house in broad view under the worst conditions for staying hidden. He had been disappointed that Grecco was still alive. All of these things came together to suggest a plot more twisted than one of Thanojax's stories. The Queen wasn't meant to be found, at least not from Thanojax's point of view. Evidence was to be erased and that included Grecco. Logic told him it was time to defend himself.

But Thanojax's threat to Romana had awakened something more primitive in him. The gun fell; Grecco moved forward. He closed his hands around the white flesh of Thanojax's throat and began to squeeze. Thanojax hissed once before his breath was cut off. His hand snapped to his throat like a striking snake. Smooth, fingers pried at Grecco's large, calloused, digits. Grecco dug his thumbs harder into the soft flesh where the man's neck connected to his chest. Thanojax tried to raise his other wrist but he couldn't get his hand to cooperate. He rubbed the wrist ineffectively against Grecco's fingers, the jutting skin feeling rubbery and making the bones making a scraping sound as they clicked together. Thanojax kept knives in his belt, but he was in too much of a panic to remember them. His whole mind, Grecco was sure, was focused on the small group of muscles that Grecco was slowly crushing. It was like squeezing a fruit that was not quite ripe. It resisted, but Grecco could feel the insides shifting as he ground them slowly into pulp. He hugged Thanojax close to his body to give himself more leverage for the final snap that would soon come. The movement revealed Romana. She stood only a few feet away and watched silently.

Suddenly, his hands were relaxing their grip. Thanojax was stumbling away, gasping screams into the night. The man struggled his way to the door and vanished like sand tossed into a wind. Grecco was staring after him, feeling ill and confused. He thought he heard his mother's poem again, but it was Romana's voice speaking:

"When your long journey  
reaches its end  
A warm hearth awaits you."

"Ghetz used to tell me that when I was scared," she explained in a quiet voice. "It was in a book, he said. His mother used to read it to him when he was frightened." She hesitated, her voice breaking on the next words. "Are you scared?"

Grecco looked down at his chest and fingered the hole in his shirt, right below his heart. "No, not any more," he said.

They departed shortly after that. He took the girl and he left the photograph behind on the table. It seemed like the right thing to do.


	36. Part xxxv

Crono strode through the council chamber, trying to ignore the plaintive greetings and murmured appreciations of his counselors. Some touched his long red cape as he walked past, a sign of their acquiescence to his royal station. He could sense the braver of them debating whether to halt his march, desperate, no doubt, to bring his attention to bear on some matter of state. He could also sense their bravery melt away as he set his face in a grimace worthy of the gods and continued to ignore them. More than their begging for his attention, their cowardice angered him. His fingers twitched towards the empty scabbard at his hip. Many a time he had thought of how satisfying it would be to send these men away in a fit of rage; to demonstrate some display of power that would send them scurrying to the corners of the castle to wipe their sweating brows and clutch their beating hearts. If a few of the frailer men lost sleep over the encounter, all the better.

Since Truce, he had often been uncomfortably hot. Yet, any time he removed the garb of royalty, the many layers of tunics and frills which designated his station, he would experience a distinct feeling of danger; chills running up his spine. He'd often thought that if he could summon the anger to use his powers, it would relieve him of all of his unpleasant sensations. Instead, he continued to abide the the fools. Knowing that he suffered their presence gave him a sense of self-satisfaction. They lived because he did not deign to strike them down. He strutted amongst them in the garb of his station and silently kept them reminded of that fact.

Some of the counselors were young enough to be thinking already of their position under the next king. Others were old enough to be fearful of making it through the reign of this one. Crono hated the lot of them. Too busy paving their own road with gold and plots to see his revolutionary vision. He yearned for Nadia's advice, her cool appraisal of the situation. He wanted her to see what he had accomplished in the months that she'd been gone, even if those months had felt like years to him.

The Masamune grew darker every day. Doreen's blood had started out as a black spot on the blade; now it was a stain that covered nearly the entirety of the sword. Crono had wiped the spot every day, but it accomplished little except to make his reflection easier to spot on the oil coloured surface. His dreams had changed, too. Doreen, in her impish form, seemed to find him no matter where sleep took him. Whether he was lost in a moment of childhood, a memory of the days when he had saved the world, or a fantasy he had yet to realize, she would appear. His mother would turn out to have her face, or maybe she would be one of the nurses present during Nadia's pregnancy. She spoke words that he could never quite remember but left him terrified. What he would recall upon waking was the sight of her blood upon his hands and a lingering smell of burnt flesh.

Finally, Crono had stopped wearing the blade, returning it to the basement of the castle where the knowledge of its presence ate at him like a disease of the flesh. He had the door to the basement fitted with a lock and the key given to Bill. It had only helped temporarily. Doreen still appeared on the peripheries of his nightmares and every day Crono felt the blade's phantom weight at his side.

Crono finally pushed past the last counselor and out of the chamber's overly ornate doors. He walked through various hallways, trying not to be annoyed every time a servant bowed their fealty. Finally, he reached the chapel where Bill was waiting for him. The chapel had been built a year after Crono had become king. It was the exact copy of a cathedral that had once sat on the border of the Guardia forest, even having the same three-tiered pipe organ that sat at it's far end, bought at auction a year ago in one of Crono's happier decisions as King. Even Nadia had been enamored with the purchase. The walls of the cathedral were lined with stained-glass windows depicting events that, of everyone in the castle, only Crono remembered, despite the original having been burnt to the ground 300 years before he was born. Though he rarely visited the replica, he felt his anger lift as he entered the place now. The smell of incense assailed him from a burner set on shelves next to the door.

BIll was crouched on his knees, his head bowed, his prayer silent. He had taken more care with grooming in the months since Truce. His red hair was slicked back into a mane that framed his features with a fiery wreath. Without the hair hanging in his face, he was revealed to have very a noble face, with the strong chin and hawk nose that were favored so much in Guardian tradition. But the effect was still marred by his eyes. They shone not with the endless possibilities of a blue sky but with the dark mystery of a still lake. Also, no amount of grooming could disguise his arms. The metal one could be gotten used to, but the other was a blemish that defied acceptance. Bill had claimed the infection had stopped spreading, but he'd taken to wearing a long black glove. Looking at it and wondering what it covered created the same itching feeling in Crono that the sword in his castle's basement did. No matter how Bill tried to hide it, Crono would never forget his last sight of the arm: the withering limb scaled over with black scabs that oozed a clear liquid when broken. Crono remembered the arm before it was blemished, for he had been the one to cause the injury. The knowledge made its current condition seem all the worse.

Bill arose a moment after Crono entered and bowed to him without a smile.

"Is there news on my wife?" Crono asked, deciding to skip the preliminaries.

"There isn't, though if there is something that you'd like me to do in this matter, I will be happy to oblige." It was a polite nothingness. There was nothing that could be done. The two men that they'd hired hadn't reported back in for two weeks. Crono had never liked the oily-skinned man with the greasy black hair and the constant smirk on his face, but Grecco he'd more or less trusted. His reports had come regularly every week for three months, never hopeful but always honest. Then, nothing. Something had happened, that much was obvious. Trying to work out the possibilities without any clues was like trying to cook without ingredients. It made Crono's head ache and, as time had passed with no answers, his mood had steadily grown fouler.

"If there is something to be done, I'll do it myself," Crono retorted. "If we haven't heard anything by the week's end, send out another team. A larger one this time. Equip them with weapons and a royal decree. Someone must know something; someone must have harbored her at some point. I want such people found. I want them questioned."

"Yes, my lord," Bill said, with a slight bow.

"Stop calling me that," Crono said angrily. "You're not one of those fools that hangs about in the Council Room, waiting for me to die or to give my favor." Bill didn't answer and Crono couldn't help but like that. He liked that Bill didn't feel the need to answer every statement with one of his own. Acknowledgment was useless. Action was what mattered.

Though he would never tell the man, Crono admired Bill like a father might a son. The two of them seemed to think alike. Rarely did Crono have to explain his intentions to the man. Crono had appointed him head of military five days after he had returned from Truce. He'd given Bill a list of duties. Bill had accepted the post and the list without fanfare and had begun executing his orders... which first declared that he execute a number of counselors suspected of treason. Bill had opted to have them stripped of rank, instead. Crono had let him, not really caring how the men were disposed of. The next order of business had been to exile anyone with close relatives in Truce. Bill had pardoned many, after forcing them to reswear their fealty to the King. Crono had figured this to be sufficient. Crono ordered there to be no more talk of lowering taxes. In fact, in the King's name, Bill had managed to raise taxes. Crono had been particularly pleased by this, for the final item Bill was to consider was to be an expensive one. He was to plan an expedition to the El Nido peninsula. This was the one time Bill had asked what he should do. He'd wondered what Crono's next orders would be, once he'd finished the planning. Crono had told him to make up his own list, an invasion list.

Three months later and Crono didn't know the troops any more. When Bill had been given control of the army, he had done more than command it. He had transformed it. Gone were the knights of the old brigade, with their stories and tired sword arms. Their replacements were young and eager, men from Truce who had lost homes and needed one and men from Poore who needed a way to feed their families. They trained constantly. The castle was filled with the sound of swordplay and, more recently, the thunder and sulfur smell of gunfire.

"If this doesn't involve news of my wife, then I trust it involves news of El Nido?" Crono pressed.

"My apologies, the invasion will take longer than you had first ordered." Bill gave the news without hesitation, despite surely knowing that Crono would dislike it.

"Train the troops harder."

"It is not our forces. Our supplies run low. The royal coffers are expansive, but we cannot strain them beyond a certain point if there is to be a Guardia left to host the invasion."

"We logged the forest," Crono protested. "The timber is good wood; old wood. It should sell for an incredible price."

"Our nation grows. Poore is expanding at an exponential rate. The city limits stretch to the border of the old forest. Much of the wood has gone towards the new buildings. Then there's the forges to think of."

"Excuses. There should be plenty of wood left over for sale."

"Medina has closed its markets."

"Then open them."

Bill opened his mouth briefly and then closed it without saying what he was thinking. Crono smiled slightly. He had flummoxed the man with his drive, he was sure of it. Time to play the mentor.

"Remember what you told me, after we fought inChoras?" Crono asked.

"Of course."

"Say it again."

"If I cannot defeat the man who holds the greatest power in all the world, then I should serve him."

"You've done me great service, William, and taking El Nido will be your greatest accomplishment. An act that will be remembered by civilizations to come." Crono smiled wider. There had been a time when the future had already been decided, its shape carved by forces which had come to the planet in the dawn of its years. Crono had torn down that future. What were left were possibilities.

"We get to build the future, William. We have a responsibility to build the future."

"I agree."

"Good. It will not be easy. People will oppose us. They will close their borders, ignore the trade agreements we settled on so long ago. They will call us war-mongers and invaders."

"They'll thank us, William," he continued. "They will. When we bring technology and civilization to their primitive lives, they will honor us. They will remember us when they live in our future."

Crono's memory flashed and he recalled a reception held by prehistoric man for a party of time travelers. The concept sometimes still seemed ridiculous to him, even though he had been there himself, challenged to a wine swilling contest by the female leader of an ancient tribe of warriors.

"Big man strong ruler," Crono said and laughed. Bill glanced at him, his blonde eyebrows arched in confusion.

"My lord?"

"Nothing," Crono said, still smiling. He clapped Bill on the back with a hand that was still calloused from the long duels they had held before Nadia's disappearance. "The El Nido province has not been touched in a hundred years. But when we are finished with it, you will have a kingdom there. "

"I wouldn't presume to accept such an honor."

"Nonsense! It is an honor, indeed, but it is more my honor to give it than for you to receive! I declare that you shall have this kingdom, William. I decree it!"

Bill winced and didn't respond. Crono felt embarrassed, like he'd said something wrong. In an instant, this embarrassment turned to frustration that Bill hadn't more graciously accepted his compliment and generous offer. He reached up to his neck and fingered the pendant that hung there, which Nadia had left behind when she had fled the kingdom... or no, she had been kidnapped. Too often, these days, he forgot that detail. Too often he rubbed this pendant and didn't know what his reaction would be when he saw her again. There was an area inside him that felt like it was missing, in the same way that one mislays something inside their home and then cannot find it. He knew that whatever was missing was within his grasp but he didn't know where to look for it. When Nadia returned, would he greet her with apologies and proclamations of his love? He saw himself hugging her in his mind, under a brightly glowing sun. He saw himself kissing her and being kissed back, both of them crying silently for joy of being back with each other. He would stop crying first and turn his attentions, selflessly, to comforting her. He would tell her it was alright and she would smile, safe in the knowledge that she needed him.

There was another vision, too. In this one, only Crono kissed. Only Crono cried. Only Crono needed comforting. Nadia was like stone, in this one, brought back to a place she didn't want to be. This vision was grey, and for its greyness, all the more real.

Bill was saying something. It was about his name, how the name William made him uncomfortable. Crono had heard it before. Bill had been named after his grandfather. Bill's father, who Bill described as a cheerless man who made sure his only son feared him, had always used the full version of his name until the day he passed away. Bill said it brought him memories he'd rather forget. As he spoke, he brushed a strand of his strawberry blonde hair out of his eyes with one hand. The glove had slipped past his elbow and Crono caught the sight of blackened skin.

"I hate that arm," Crono said. Bill stopped talking. "Both of them. But that one, that one makes my skin crawl. I could order you to have it looked at."

Bill still didn't answer and Crono grew more annoyed. This was how their sword duels ended, as well. At some point, Bill would simply stop fighting. Crono would make a few more thrusts and slashes but it was hard to feel good about fighting a man who was turning his back on you and putting away his weapons. Similarly, railing at Bill now felt infinitely pointless. He might as well have turned to one of the church pews and told it that he didn't like the look of its wood.

"You had something to show me," Crono said, giving up. "What have I come to see?"

Bill bowed, all formality again. "An inspection of the troops, as you requested."

"Did I request that?" Crono searched his memory. Thoughts came and went like traveling performers, these days. Since Truce he had trouble recalling what he said from day to day. "It had something to do with..." he tried.

"You wanted to see the new weapons."

"Of course," Crono smiled. "Let's go, then."

Bill led him out of the Cathedral, snuffing out the incense with two fingers as they passed. The smell of burnt cedar flooded his nostrils.

The moment Crono entered the council room he was struck by the silence. The councilors that had filled the chamber's broad space and high ceiling with their their pleas for Crono's attention and sent the hurried whisperings of their plots into the crowded shadows of its corner were gone. They were replaced with the stoic stares of fifty of the kingdom's finest soldiers. Crono recognized a face here and there: the men were all from Truce, all young enough to be his brothers. All of them holding the latest designed rifles from Poore: the weapons that would win them a new kingdom.

Bill never said anything. He simply nodded.

The pendant around Crono's neck rang out in a shrill note as a bullet ricocheted off of its dreamstone innards. The glass containing it cracked, but the dreamstone remained untouched. It was the only bullet to miss its mark. The others tore through Crono, embedding themselves in his guts, his muscles, his bones. The pain was brief. The sensation was what lasted. It felt like having chains wrapped around his body. He seemed to have gained twenty pounds in an instant. The sound of the gunfire seemed to take forever to catch up to the feeling. By that time, the weight had already pulled him to his knees.

Crono blinked twice, slowly. By the second blink, his head was slumping forward. He tried to get angry, but there was no need anymore. The heat was gone. He remained crouched like that for several more seconds before whatever strength had been in him left quietly and he collapsed to the cold floor of the council chamber.

Dirt. The dirt was warm and full of life. Crono felt the sun on his neck and he reached a tanned hand up to rub it, his hands feeling, without complaint, the places where the skin had been burned. To be burned by the sun only meant that the harvest would be a strong one. A beetle crawled across his foot, parting with delicate ease the stalks of corn where Crono worked. It paused for a moment and they regarded each other. Then Crono heard a call come from the farmhouse. He turned. Nadia was waiting for him at the door to their home and when she saw him coming, she smiled.

Long after the soldiers had left, Bill remained seated by the body, his shoulders slumped, his decaying arm hanging at one side, his other resting lightly on Crono's face where metal fingers had closed his eyes. Bill made no sound. He thought that maybe he would cry, but he didn't. After so long in waiting, the actual moment of his revenge felt too familiar to be anything but empty.


	37. Part xxxvi

The end of summer had brought with it a chill wind. Fall had come and gone in a single week, the leaves changing colours and falling so swiftly that, for a few days, Nadia had felt that she lived in a kaleidoscope. It would be an early winter. Lucca's house was warm, though, and Nadia marveled at how just that one fact comforted her. Lucca hadn't asked any questions when Nadia had arrived, with only a pack on her back and wearing clothes that weren't her own. She must have seemed emaciated: she hadn't eaten in two days and had been traveling cross country for both of them. Luccas had invited her in as if she'd always lived in the orphanage, embraced her, and given her food to eat and a place to sleep. The food showed that cooking wasn't Lucca's strong point and Nadia found a wrench misplaced under her pillow, but the hug had been genuine and carried with it memories. If Lucca had noticed the blood stain on the front of Nadia's shirt, she hadn't said anything.

Now, a week later, sitting at Lucca's crowded dinner table in her even-more-crowded living room, Nadia almost felt safe.

"What is that thing, Lucca?" she asked the inventor, or at least what she could see of the inventor. A tuft of uneven purple hair poked out from behind a huge metal box with a clear glass door. Through the door, she could see spirals and twists of metal coils affixed to the top and sides of the box. The whole thing looked very confusing and a little frightening. One of the orphans had perched herself on top of the box, but Lucca didn't seem to mind.

Lucca came around the edge of the box and opened the glass door. She held a plate of rice and chicken in one hand. The other tousled her hair. It was shaped round, like a bowl, and had grown long enough to cover the tips of her ears. When Lucca forgot to cut her hair, Nadia knew she'd been truly busy.

"It's a microwave emitter," Lucca explained, then poked her head into the machine. She added, in time with Nadia's thoughts, "It's perfectly harmless when it's turned off."

"Okay," Nadia said, grinning at the familiarity of such exchanges. "What is a microwave emitter?"

"It excites the electrons inside of an object, or at least, I think it does," Lucca said, her voice echoing out of the box as she placed the plate on the bottom of the machine. "To be more specific, it heats polarized molecules in a uniform excitation."

"I give up," Nadia said quickly, before Lucca could continue. What does it cure?"

"Today? Hunger. I'm going to use it to cook my lunch."

"You can't be serious, Lucca," Nadia said, aghast. "You're not going to eat something that's been... in there!" Then another thought occurred to her. "Lucca. You aren't going to turn it on?"

For an answer, Lucca shut the door and flipped a switch near the bottom of the box. Immediately a low hum filled the room and the metal of the box popped loudly as it began to expand with internal heat, like tin left under a hot sun. Nadia rose from her chair and rushed to the machine. Her first instinct was to shut it down, but she knew enough about Lucca's inventions to know that might not have the desired effect. Halting whatever mad process had been put into place could be more dangerous than letting it all play out. Instead she reached up and grabbed the infant girl from the top of the machine and then quickly backed away, taking cover behind a stack of cardboard boxes filled with tools and discarded pieces of failed experiments.

Lucca had lowered a pair of mirrored goggles over her head. They were ridiculous. Lucca's glasses were already large enough for two people to use and thick enough that Lucca should have been able to see the far side of the moon; the goggles that she had carefully set into place covered these, and were roughly the size of dinner plates. The act of wearing them visually transformed Lucca into something much resembling a giant insect.

Nadia pushed aside a metal tool box that was blocking her view of the machine. A part of her wanted to tell Lucca to get away from the machine but she was also morbidly curious to see what would happen.

_Like when you ran away with Ghetz?_

The voice came from within her own head. A female voice; it had a familiar teasing lilt to it, though its timbre had grown deeper since the last time she'd heard it. The young girl who had last used it had grown up. It was a friendly voice, but one that meant to do her harm, nonetheless.

"No," she whispered, and the child in her arms turned to look at her with confusion. "That was different."

_Oh? But weren't you just a little bit curious as to what would happen?_

"It was a well thought out decision," Nadia protested, knowing that her protests were only making her stance seem weaker. "There wasn't another option. None of it had to do with girlish curiosity."

"Nadia?" Lucca called out. "Did you say something?"

"No."

_Funny you use the word "girlish." Little girls usually don't think about the consequences of their actions. Remember that._

"Shut up. I'm back, aren't I?

_And look what you've come back to. The King is dead, and Ghetz has been left-_

"Ghetz is fine."

With a sound like overripe fruit hitting a sidewalk, the chicken in the machine exploded, splattering the glass doors with burnt skin, bits of meat, and a healthy dose of overcooked rice. Lucca opened the glass door and then stepped quickly back with a sharp intake of breath as superheated steam splashed across her outstretched hand. She brought the burnt spot to her mouth, lightly sucking on the spot where the thumb connected to the hand.

"Well, you were right," Lucca said, taking her hand out of her mouth and shaking it vigorously. "This isn't edible at all."

Lucca turned and her casual smile collapsed at the corners of her lips, falling into what could have been concern, a fearful grimace, or even anger: it was impossible to tell with the goggles obscuring half of her features.

"Nadia," Lucca said softly. "Your face..."

Unsure of what Lucca meant, Nadia reached her right hand towards her face and stopped as she caught sight of the fingers. Nadia had always had pale skin but the hand she now held in front of her had moved beyond a normal pigmentation. It was white in the way that a corpse turns white when the blood has drained from it. It was white in the way that the world is white after the first snowfall. She turned the hand over. The tips of her fingers were blue and frost had built up on her fingernails. A sudden whimper from next to her reminded her that she was holding the young girl with her other hand. The child was squirming to get away from her grip and Nadia realized how warm the child's skin felt against her palm. Nadia let go with a startled movement and the young girl ran to Lucca, grabbing onto the inventor's grey overalls and turning a fearful face towards Nadia. Nadia looked back at her hand. It was whiter, even, then the other one. It must have been freezing to the child.

Lucca nodded. "It's coming back," she said. It wasn't a question. Lucca turned towards the child and smiled. "Go check on Kid," she said. "And then you and Sera can go make some more drawings for me. Would you do that?" The child's nod was reflected in the dark mirrors of the goggles. She ran off without another look at Nadia, standing rigidly by the boxes.

Lucca scratched the side of her head and turned the black mirrors on Nadia. "When did it start to happen?" she asked.

"When I heard," Nadia said. Her eyes carefully avoided looking at Lucca. She studied the tool box in front of her with unnatural detachment, her mind empty of everything except the pounding of her heart. The box was very red. A fine mist had formed on its surface. Brief patterns of condensation spread and then withdrew in a steady rhythm. It took Nadia a moment to realize it was her breath, hitting the box with repeated chill gusts.

"I'm sorry," Lucca said. "I'm sorry for not talking about it before. I knew you had to know, but... I couldn't talk about it."

There was a heat in the back of Nadia's throat and a pressure building up behind her eyes. It wasn't quite painful but it demanded her entire attention. It was fighting a fire. It was holding a door shut. It was a desperate swim to the surface of a deep lake. Lucca had been reaching to take off her goggles only seconds before, but now she seemed happier to let them stay in place.

"You couldn't have saved him. There was a coup. They would have killed you, too."

"Did he really burn the forest."

The heat had turned cold now. Nadia didn't need to hear the answer to her question. It hadn't really been a question, besides. It had been a memory. It had been knowledge, rising to the surface against all the other emotions and leaving her cold with its touch. Her breath steamed again against the tool box, but now she looked away, turning her eyes back towards the inventor.

"I can't go with you, Nadia," Lucca whispered.

Suddenly Nadia was across the room and hugging Lucca tightly. The inventor's hands found her back and rested there peacefully.

"I'm frightened, Lucca."

"I know."

"I think this is goodbye."

"Try not to think poorly on Crono. He loved you. He loved all of us. I don't think it was really him at the end."

"I shouldn't have left him."

"I don't think you ever did."

"I love you, Lucca."

"You can always come back. The doors will be open. I will be here. You can always come back."

Nadia didn't say anything. She pulled away from her friend. They stared at each other for some time. Lucca would later wish she had taken off the goggles and looked at Nadia with her eyes, not through some tinted window. But at the time she needed their protection more than ever. She needed to be safe from the kind of emotions she hadn't felt in two years, when her parents had died, leaving her alone.

Eventually Nadia broke the silence. "I have to go," she said softly and smiled. "I have to get ready."

Long after Nadia had left for her room, Lucca stayed next to the machine, wondering if there was anything she could have said, at any point in the past, to change what was happening now. Steam was still coming out from the inside of it, rolling across her back like the heat of a hot springs. But all she could feel was the freezing cold where Nadia's hands had gripped her.


	38. Part xxxvii

Summer had passed Guardia up for a bad job, this year. The warmth of the night was like a final farewell from the season. It was not stuffy, as warm nights in the forest can be. The warmth was made pleasant by one of the cool breezes coming in off the coast, carried all the way across the plains and farmlands to play amongst the trees. Moonlight pierced the canopy, parted branches, ran soft fingers along the leaves, and alighted on the ground without a sound. Nadia walked through the slender beams of light, her pale skin almost blending together with the white of her costume. She hadn't been sure it would fit anymore. It had been five years. It was disappointingly tight around her midriff and the low cut top exposed more of her breasts then she was used to. She kept pulling at the red trim, trying unsuccessfully to get the top to cover a little more of her skin, but it kept slipping down. The gold bangles that served her as arm guards were cold on her bare arms, but reassuring. They were covered in dent marks from where blades and magic had been deflected. The pants were baggy, allowing her a freedom of movement she had forgotten while wearing the dresses of court. The pant bottoms were tied around her ankles, just above her shoes which, though looking like little more than sandals, could put up with miles of hard walking. The sack at her side no longer held slender vials of Athenian Water nor translucent blue Lapis magic-stones. In fact, all that remained in its various pockets and hide-aways was a single red tonic pill that she must've missed when she cleaned out the bag five years ago. It had probably lost its potency, but she couldn't bring herself to throw it away. It was a hold over from past adventures. Having it added to the reality of what she was doing. Though maybe not quite as much as did the heavy crossbow slung over her back.

With every step she made, the crossbow rubbed, the strap digging into her left shoulder, also weighed down with the large closed quiver that held all of her bolts. They were simple iron bolts, nothing magical or fantastical about them. That was reserved for the crossbow. It was an intimidating weapon, looking more like a Poorian rifle than a crossbow. The two technologies had mixed to make it, and there was magic in the weapon, too, that could launch a bolt fast enough to pierce stone. Crono had had his Rainbow as a souvenir of their adventures. Nadia now had the Wondershot. It actually hadn't belonged to her; she'd favored the longbow during their journeys. But she'd been forced to leave them behind in the castle when she'd fled during the Solstice. Sitting in the castle's armory, in a velvet case, were her Siren and Venus. She had been weaponless when she'd washed up amidst the ruins of Truce a week ago. Lucca had pressed the Wondershot into her hand before Nadia had left this morning. Nadia knew Lucca hadn't supported her idea, but by giving her the Wondershot she was helping her nonetheless. It was a final show of friendship and it told Nadia, more than anything else, that she would never see Lucca again.

_Why?_

The voice sent a rush of irritation down her spine. "Who are you to ask questions?" Nadia said, knowing full well who the voice was and what its claims were. She was annoyed because the question was pointless. Whatever happened tonight, Lucca had given away the last and most powerful of her weapons. She was done fighting and being involved with fighting. If Nadia was choosing that path, she'd walk it alone.

Nadia knew what the philosophers said about a crisis, that time slowed down during one. But it had never worked that way for her. She had always felt, instead, that she didn't have enough time. Nadia was being catapulted through a series of thoughts. They swept her along her chosen path without giving her time to consider whether the choice had been the correct one.

_You could have stayed with Ghetz._

"No," she said, passing a dead stump overgrown with little blue flowers she didn't know the name of. Ahead of her was the curtain of vines, that seemed to hang down over a cliff wall. If you looked for the place on the wall where the blue flowers didn't poke through the vines, you would find the opening to the tunnel. She knew where to look. She pushed past the curtain and entered the darkness.

She had no light. The echoes of her footsteps made the darkness more real, tearing away the comforting illusion that it was pulled against her like a concealing blanket. The echo revealed the true size of that darkness and illuminated only how concealing it could be to other things.

_You could have stayed with Lucca._

"If I had stayed, I never would have come," she said. The argument was a little too "as this follows that," perhaps, but there wasn't anything more to be said. It was the only argument she had. She couldn't come up with another. Time was moving her thoughts on.

On the night she'd left the castle, she had gone to her room. She'd taken the bundle of clothing and the bolts, the accoutrements which she'd put aside, along with her alias, the day she married Crono. She'd left her pendant, the last part of her that was connected with her royal status, on the pillow. She'd joined Ghetz on the horse and ridden away from the future. Or so she'd thought.

_You can't escape the future. It sort of just happens to you._

Her past. A childhood well spent: she knew all the ways in and out of the castle, though time had changed things with gleeful abandon. More than once, she had leapt from the window of her room to the red tiles of the roof eight feet below and from there walked as regally as if she were upon the traditional red carpet towards the line of trees that gave an enterprising young girl a hundred ways to access the woods and the freedom they represented.

The present. She imagined what that route had to be like today. She could just picture herself clambering up some tree, the once huge branches now groaning precariously beneath her adult weight. The roof tiles would be slippery with the recent rain, treacherous. That word, treacherous, never would have occurred to her in her youth. Youth has a wonderful innocence which it uses to shield itself from the... from everything, really. Reality, most of all. It is a true faith, that children have. They will make a running leap from a wet tiled roof to the thin branch of a thirty-foot Walnut tree because they know, with a certainty that priests pray to have, that they will not fall. Adult hood was like making the jump to the roof only to find the window locked.

The past. The easiest way had always been to announce her royal status to one of the castle's dim witted guards and continue (with ever increasing volume) to announce it until said guard had made way for her highness. "Oh, of course I'm only headed to the forest for a little walk around the flower gardens," she would say with a twittering laugh after the guard reluctantly coalesced. "The flowers are in such bloom this season. Shall I bring one back for you? " The little nymphette wink, the cocky toss of hair, the charming blue-eyed gaze that set the guard to stammering and stuttering. These things were now gone from her now. Her eyes didn't twinkle. Her wink contained no slyness. Even the complacent guards were gone, replaced with hard men whose only foreseeable reaction to recognizing her would be to detain her. Then the plan would be lost, her revenge left unsatisfied.

Her present. The best way had always been underground. There was a bolt hole at the base of the castle's royal tower, hidden behind a painting of a large suit of armour supposedly worn by Cyrus. The tunnel leading to the painting had been fleshed out with stone supports to make what resembled walls on the sides and gravel had been strewn on the ground to suggest a path. She had never liked this way. In fact, she'd only gone all the way through the tunnel once. Her father had forbidden her from leaving the castle and that time he'd told the guards, too. No seductive wink, no loud scream of complaint, was going to get her to the Millennial Fair. That's right; the Fair. The once-in-a-millenia fair had been on that day. It had seemed so cruel of her father. They'd been fighting again, over what they always fought about. Mother, Nadia's nightly escapes into the forest, Nadia's refusal to dress like a princess and sit with him at court, Mother, who she would marry, and Mother. Everything. They fought about everything. She had hated him, then, and she'd thought he hated her. And so she'd taken the bolt hole, her fears decimated by the desire to piss him off. She'd followed the tunnel to its end, though twice she had stopped and started going back. Eventually she had emerged at the edge of the forest with the sun in her eyes and a new identity ready to disguise her at the Fair.

_Of course you would choose this path._

The voice was full of a smug snideness that made her want to plant a fist in her own face.

_That would really show me._

She could feel the girl crawling along beside her. Young Nadia had been terrified of the dark, though she would never tell anyone that. The darkness had always seemed to be full of life, like a shadow filled with black insects. Darkness seemed to crawl over her skin, reaching through her clothing, rubbing fingers soft as breaths of air over her back until the little hairs there rose to attention and quivered with electric fear.

Old Nadia ran a hand across the back of her neck, pressing the hairs down again. The dark still scared her, but for different reasons. It was no longer a place where ghosts waited to jump out at her. She knew now what lurked in the darkness. It was herself, her own thoughts, that threatened to overwhelm her when her other senses were suppressed. Her thoughts in the darkness always sounded unnervingly like the soft cry of a baby.

Climbing the short stairs out of the bolt hole, feeling the cool touch of the castle's stone on her fingertips as she pushed open the secret door, was a relief, even though the brightness of the torches in the castle hallway made her eyes water. With cautious grace, Nadia emerged into the only home she'd ever had. Being here, she couldn't believe she'd ever imagined she could make a new home elsewhere. Her dalliance with Ghetz had been foolishness. That she thought she could escape had been foolishness. The innocence of the child again, thinking it could grow into anything but a queen.

_They were three wonderful months of summer... right?_

Nadia didn't answer. She'd heard something moving in the hallway. It was exactly the kind of trick the voice would try and pull, to make her speak and reveal herself. She strained her ears to hear the sound again. Four seconds passed at a crawl, achingly slow. Then she heard the clinking footstep again. Steel toed boots. Like the ones the Poorian army troopers wore. Bill's men.

Torches sent shifting patterns of light down the hallway, piercing the darkness and making shadows quiver in perpetual dance. Nadia reached a hand into the nearest flame and, without thinking much of it, pressed her hand against the superheated oil. The flame spat once and then died against her palm, leaving no mark of its touch aside from a thin layer of soot which she wiped upon her cloak. Then she pulled back into the shadows and let her fears take over.

Had she made more noise than she'd thought as she left the bolt hole? She looked up, her eyes finding the painting of Cyrus' armor in the dark. She couldn't really see the painting, but she didn't need to. Her mind filled in the details. She'd spent a lot of time under this painting, wondering if she could muster the courage to get through the bolt hole. Except for that one time, the answer had been no. And that had been the last time she'd snuck out of the castle. She knew that painting, knew that it wasn't really a great painting. It had been with little skill and maybe less passion, being just a painting of armour. Pointless. There was no point to armour that you couldn't wear.

The guard came around the distant corner of the hallway. She could see him; the torch light showed her a young man with brown hair and an even, precise, step. He wore the long blue jacket of the Poorian army and the black beret that marked him as an officer. She couldn't see his face very well, but he stood with a rigidity that made her think of a handsome man with class and poise, but maybe not enough to smile about in his life.

Fifteen steps in front of him, twenty steps in front of her, was the staircase leading up to the royal chambers. It had been a guess, that Bill would be using their old chamber. She wouldn't know if her bet had turned out in her favor until she was actually in the room. That would be in a few minutes, if she wasn't seen.

_And then what?_

I'll kill him.

Bill had killed Crono. The rebels had told her that once they'd had her on the ship, hoping it would convince her that she needed to stay with them. She'd told them, yes, that they were right. It would be best if she stayed, let them take her to their leader, who was working to overthrow Bill. They'd smiled. She'd smiled back. She had jumped ship that night, first time they left her alone. She wasn't just crazy. She also didn't believe them. They'd come to her and Ghetz once a month, sometimes more. She had recognized the man. He'd been one of Crono's knights. His name was James. How many times had he tried to convince Ghetz to come back to Guardia, to join their cause? How many cups of tea and pints of beer had he calmly swallowed, listening to Ghetz refuse, bouncing Romana on one knee, smiling sadly at Nadia every once in a while as if to say "I know the secret behind this family; that it is no family at all. Just a ruse."

Then, that last time, he'd asked her. Not Ghetz, but her. Ghetz had looked at her like a man who'd been caught by an unexpected punch. Nadia had looked back with a smile, trying to let him know there was no way she'd go with- then James had told her that Crono was dead. He's dead. Two words that did more than two hours of argument could.

_For that you left Ghetz?_

No, she wanted to say. I was never really with Ghetz. She didn't dare speak out loud. The guard had paused, looking towards the end of the hall where the torch light was extinguished. Would he consider it his job to light it again?

_I don't think he saw it that way._

"I didn't want to leave him," she whispered fiercely and the memory of Ghetz's smile burned somewhere in her chest. The guard began to walk in her direction. She raised the crossbow, deciding he was too young to have a family.

_They never would have been able to fight him if you had stayed._

When James had told her that their mission was to remove William from power, she'd become skeptical again. Their organization was large, too large to have begun just to fight a usurper of the throne. She didn't know who had started the rebellion, but they'd been around long enough that they couldn't just be fighting Bill. They'd been fighting Crono, too. She was sure of it. They had other motives and-

_Crono died because you left._

"Shut up."

She thought that was it, she'd been discovered, but the guard turned around and walked away from the stairs, unknowingly making the decision to live. Nadia released her grip and heard a slight cracking sound. Looking down, she saw thick ice covering the handle of the crossbow and a palm shaped crater where her hand had pressed against the frost.

Nadia began to move forward, heading for the stairs, and the room at the top of the tower, where once she had slept with Crono. The torches extinguished themselves as she passed.

Anxiety beat against her head like a drum, muddling her thoughts. Everything, everything except the moment, had seemed irrelevant before. Only now that revenge was within her grasp did she start to wonder if she had choices left or if her future had been set from the moment she'd decided to flee the castle. She'd been frightened and not without good reason. Truce was burning. Crono was returning, bringing with him the war that he'd just started. Anyone would tell her that she'd done the right thing. But not everyone mattered. She had hurt Crono. She couldn't even ask him to forgive her, now. She hated him for dying and she hated that she loved him. There was nothing she could have done. She knew that. Because he had blamed her for leaving, she was sure of that. She even understood why he'd think it was a betrayal In his mind he had drawn a line and crossed it to stand on one side; then watched as she crossed to the other side. But the options had been to betray him or die because of him. There was no right answer there. Either way, she was going to lose him. That he would hold her responsible for having made the choice she did, that hurt her. It wasn't about being faithful, it was about the future.

Lucca had once told them, five years ago, that she feared retribution for their actions. Lucca had meant that someone's future might have been erased along with the apocalypse. To someone else, they might've been as bad as Lavos, a group of evildoers set on destroying the family and loved ones of someone who had made themselves a life in that battered future world. Of course, Crono hadn't understood. We've just saved the world, he'd said. We're heroes. Nadia had actually agreed with him, at the time. No one, she believed, could have cared enough about that bleak future to fight for it. Now she'd come across a different kind of bleakness, though. In this future, Crono forced his kingdom and their relationship through a slow death. That was what she saw. But he hadn't seen that. He'd seen them together. He'd been willing to fight for that future. He'd been the one who didn't want the future to change. The future that she had erased when she'd left the castle had been his and hers.

Revenge wasn't all she had left to her. She wasn't some pulp character out of a cheap novel. Convoluted plot lines hadn't contrived to force her into this. She'd chosen to come here. If she left now, it would be betrayal all over again. The thought did nothing to alleviate her anxiety, except maybe to replace it by degrees with anger. The truth... well, the truth was that she had no idea what was right and wrong. She couldn't see the future, not even far enough to know whether she was going to walk away from the impending encounter. She acted like everyone did, regardless of claims to rationality. She acted on instinct, called it logic, and hoped like hell it all worked out.

The room was muted, rather than dark. Her eyes had adjusted during the long trek of the tunnel. Shadows covered the room like thin clothing, obscuring but not truly hiding anything. A slightly sweet smell, also slightly acrid, passed her and her nose twitched. The room had a familiarity to it that she found upsetting. If Bill had taken over this room,. he hadn't changed anything. The bed sat against the same wall, opposite the grand windows latched against the chill of the night. The covers of the bed were rumpled and tossed back, showing the signs of having been slept in. She imagined the blonde man rising from the bed, perhaps nursing his injured arm with the metallic one. Why would he rise? Where would he go? Her eyes drifted down lower on the sheets, discerning a package. She walked closer and shifted it with her fingers. Leaves. No, herbs. It was an herbal packet, such as the doctors would make to put on an aching muscle or even an open wound, to draw out the bad humors. So then his arm was getting worse. She felt a surprising pang of sympathy at the thought. She remembered the arm, mottled grey and green and looking like a sickness hanging from his shoulder. Her stomache turned at the thought.

She turned her attention to the bedside table. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, crafted from a dead tree in a forest that Cro- that had burnt down recently. She ran an appreciating hand along its edge. How many times had Crono placed a hand here? Her hand bumped a half-full glass of water. A smudge on the side of the glass showed where someone had recently placed their lips. Next to the glass stood an unlit candle. Nadia sniffed the air again. That smell, she recognized it. It was the lingering smell of a candle that has just been put out. Someone had put it out recently enough that it was still letting off a thin line of smoke.

Not enough time to leave the room, then.

She turned, lifting the crossbow, but it was too late. The words hit her like a knife in the back.

"Hello, Mother."


	39. Part xxxviii

It's time for a story.

Once upon a time, in the prosperous kingdom of Guardia, there lived a young boy named William, who had been named for his mother's father. William's parents were the King and Queen of the land and were loved by all their subjects. Anyone who didn't love them was murdered by William's father, Crono. William understood that this was good and proper and that to do otherwise would be the height of foolishness. So he was told by his father. Such was the way to protect the future.

His mother, Nadia, told him a different tale. She spoke of days before the future, days of the past when she and Crono had fought monsters and warlocks and all-around bad people for the sake of the world. William liked these stories, even if it was difficult for him to look at his beautiful, serene, mother and imagine her shooting arrows through the hearts of Imps and Shetakes and Reptites.

Crono took a lot of care in raising his son. He showed him how he did his work. Some of it was politics, but more of it was war. He tutored him personally in the use of the blade. William became so good with a blade that he came close, several times, to beating his father. But Crono was always stronger and never let his son forget it. He controlled the power of the elements and could turn suddenly from a kindly mentor, sparring with a favored student, into a warrior fighting for his pride. The change was swift as the breaking of a storm.

Swordplay wasn't the only thing Crono taught William. He taught him how to measure out death in terms of liters and degrees; the proper mixtures of chemicals and biologies. He showed him how a dose of Shinrock in a glass of wine could level an enemy from within their own home. He showed him how a certain plant, if pulped along the edge of a blade, would paralyze an opponent after it cut. He showed him antidotes, too, but only a few of these. There are many ways to kill a man, went the lesson, but only a few to save his life.

His mother gave him lessons, too. She taught him how to read people, how to know that the man praising you meant to turn your followers against you; how to know that the man criticizing you was your best friend and closest ally. She taught him other things, too. Crono showed him how Shinrock could kill; she showed him what it looked like when it flowered. From her he learned the names of plants and animals and came to love the world he lived in with a fervor that made him want to protect it from any enemies. More than that, he would do anything to protect her.

He fought in his first war at thirteen. He had thought his father would not let him come. Crono had always been protective, in his own way. But he ended up encouraging William, putting him on the front lines, even. He smirked with pride when William conquered every enemy that came against him. And William fought in the next war. And the next. For three years he fought, until he turned sixteen.

William had never asked his father what these wars were about. He didn't have to. He was happy and he was gaining Crono's respect and adoration in a way that was foreign to him, but which he enjoyed immensely. And the kingdom was safe. And so was his mother.

The girl changed all of that. She was young, maybe fourteen, when he took her life. It was pure chance that knocked her helmet from her head, a sloppy misstep of hers as she ran to spear his horse. His downswing, aimed from the saddle at her neck, hit the helmet instead and split it, knocking the two pieces to the side. The horse reared. The girl, her blonde hair now spilling down her shoulders, looked up with him in complete fear and then the horse's hooves caved in her face.

He would never know her name. He had never known any of their names. More importantly, he had never known any of their stories. He had never asked what they were fighting for or against. He had always gone where his father told him to and killed whomever was standing against them. He felt a weight settle over him that soured the wine and food he consumed, exhausted him at all hours of the day, and crushed his enjoyment of life. Women had once flocked to his bed, to the mild distaste of his mother; now he pushed them away and spent more time alone, to her moderate concern. He had always accompanied his father on hunts. Now he preferred to watch their passage from the Eastern Tower of the castle, the room where he'd been born.

Fighting became harder. The wars continued and he continued to fight in them, but now he felt less like a leader of men and more like just a single man. He'd never thought that he could be injured before, at least not seriously. He'd never thought he could lose. Now he began to see himself as not so different from everyone else on the battlefield. Every enemy he felled could be him in a few minutes time. If the father noticed the change in his son, Crono made no sign of caring. Crono was still a storm. He controlled a blade like a third arm and he had power over the elements that could only be called magic. His concerns were unfathomable.

One day William was cut down when his horse was killed in battle. He was trapped underneath the beast and the wild blow that was aimed at him from his attacker cut his right arm clean off. The peasant who cut him down was a nondescript middle aged farmer with a rusty axe. William never saw him again. He never knew his name or whether he survived the battle.

Crono went to great lengths to save his son. He found him after the battle and brought him home, where Nadia used her own magic to keep him on the very brink of life. Crono, meanwhile, set about finding a solution to his arm. He found his answer in Lucca Ashtear, who worked for the Poorian military as a technological developer. She invented the metal that would become his new arm, calling it the Strong Arm. It _was_ strong, stronger than his old one and weighing no more then his old muscle, flesh, and bone had. William hated that arm.

Something in the strain and effort of keeping him alive damaged his mother. Nadia lost her energy and her vibrancy. She took to sitting in the Eastern tower for hours at a time, sometimes spending the entire day alone in a chair, rocking back and forth and not speaking or eating. Crono, meanwhile, continued winning his wars and William continued to fight in them. Now that he had faced death, the battlefield seemed surreal. It felt like he was playing a game. He could see lists in front of him of all the possible futures, branching out from single sword strokes. All he had to do was choose which one he wanted and it would happen. But his victories no longer seemed to please his father as once they had. Crono fought more viciously in each war, until his support shrunk and his kingdom, once encompassing the very idea of protection, became known simply as "The Fell."

Eventually the people would stand for no more. The servants of the castle revolted, taking Nadia hostage and saying they would release her if the King would come to his senses and parlay with them. Crono listened and for the first time in a long time, William thought that maybe his father had a heart. He marveled that his mother, even in her dilapidated state, could melt his frosty countenance. But the people wanted more than Crono was willing to give. They wanted him to step down from his throne and leave The Fell, to be banished to the isles of El Nido. He didn't just refuse. He murdered the entire envoy. That night, Nadia's head was sent to the castle in an iron box. She was forty two when she had died. William was twenty years younger.

William fled into the Guardia forest. It was like he was in a battle. The myriad paths of the future were pounding through his mind, giving him no rest. They showed him option after option and only one ending. Guardia would fall, but not before the world burned. There was no future left.

It was in this aurora of clarity that he found the gate. He didn't realize he'd walked through it until he felt how cold everything was. It had been summer when he'd entered the woods: now a fine snow dotted the ground. He continued to walk, knowing his way and yet recognizing little. Trees that he knew had been cut down were miraculously regrown... or never cut down in the first place.

He eventually found his way back to the castle. There he saw his mother, only she was much younger then he could ever remember seeing her. She was also very pregnant. Like most single children, his instant reaction to this was that he didn't care to have a little sibling running around the castle. Then the greater realization of what he was seeing struck him. His mother was alive. She hadn't died... yet.

Stories he'd grown to disbelieve came rushing back to him. They were his mother's stories about a future that couldn't be allowed to exist, about journeys that took his parents through time to change their fates. Had it been Lucca who had once told him about the Time Gates? It had been after a feast and she'd been drunk that night. He'd assumed she had been leading him on. But now he was positive she had been telling the truth.

So he learned that it was "when" he was and not "where" that mattered. He withdrew from the castle and took up residence in Poore, which he had visited often enough in his own timeline that he figured he'd be able to find some foothold there. How wrong he had been. Poore existed, yes, but it wasn't the Poore he'd known at all. This Poore, just now celebrating its creation of a city-wide sewer system, was woefully underdeveloped compared to the one he'd left behind. Where were the skyscrapers? the well dressed businessmen and merchants? the parks containing specimens from all over the world? and, on the edge of the city, the weapon's factories that belched black and yellow smoke into the sky? William was lost. More than lost, he was homeless. He had never had to provide for himself, before. The few coins in his pocket were minted for a year that didn't yet exist. They were useless. He soon found himself starving on the streets of Poore, hiding his arm (which frightened people) and begging for bread (which was often so stale it caused his mouth to bleed). For two months he lived in this manner, until news came from the castle that the queen's son had died in childbirth.

It is a strange thing to hear of your own birth. It is a stranger thing to hear of your own death immediately after. Days after hearing the news William would wake in a cold sweat, look at his body, and expect to see it fading into nothingness. But no. The past hadn't changed his present. He had no longer been born and yet here he was, still existing. He was already in this world. He supposed the timeline wouldn't handle a second version of him.

William stopped thinking of himself by his birth name. He shortened it to Bill and turned to the tools his father had taught him, those of the assassin. There is a saying in Guardia: the path of the murderer leads either to the noose or to Choras. Bill ended up in Choras. It was in Choras, no longer starving and no longer lacking shelter, that he heard of his father's military occupation of Truce.

How to describe the feelings that went through him upon learning of this event? It was like standing still in front of a swinging axe. He'd been here before. He'd seen this happen and he knew how it ended: the kingdom embroiled in war; his mother dead. The answer, the way to dodge the axe, came to him from his mother's own stories, his favorite story, the one where she and father went back in time to save the future. Mother was never sure how much he should hear of these stories. Father was always telling him the gory parts, about monsters in cathedrals dressed in human skin and a horror, something like a giant shelled beetle, raining fire upon the world. Mother liked to tell the parts about her and father and their friends, loving each other and looking towards life's little joys. It was confusing, like each one of them had lived a totally different version of the events. Bill had asked her, once, if she had killed anyone. She had hesitated. The she had nodded solemnly.

"We killed to save the future."

The answer now was the same. Bill would kill to save the future. He would kill his father. He wasn't anything more than a monster in human skin, anyway.

Crono turned out to be weaker than Bill had expected. In the old days (the future days) Crono would have charged an assassin's bones with enough electricity to bake him from the inside out. But what Bill faced was no mage. He faced a man already passing his prime, fighting with polished but predictable sword techniques. In the battle, Bill felt the touch of destiny. He was destined to win this fight. What else could it mean, when a man he had always feared was suddenly, unexplainably, weaker than him? Then he felt the touch of fate, and it was a heavier touch. It scorched his arm, turned it into a mangled mess, and it did it through Crono's hand. The only thing he could think, as Crono won the fight, was how disappointed his father would have been in him. He'd made a miserable assassin; all that training gone to waste.

Bill waited for his father to end his life, the way he'd ended his mother's. But it didn't happen. Instead Crono had hesitated, spared his life and, when Bill had requested it, given him a place at court. Over the next few months, Bill would feel he was getting to know two versions of his father. One was a man foreign to him, someone who loved Nadia so much he ached for her. It hurt Bill and confused him. He would spend hours getting to know this man, this new father. He grew close to him. He loved this man. This was the man he'd heard about in her stories, the man who would sacrifice himself to save everything he loved. This wasn't a man who had killed to save the future. This was a man who had given everything he had to save the future.

He almost didn't do it. He almost didn't put the poison in the wine. It was a desperate plan at best. He couldn't poison all of the wine because of the dilution. Shinrock was a deadly poison but the little bit he'd brought with him from Choras would do no good added to an entire cask of wine. Not to mention he couldn't risk his mother drinking it. He'd have to put it in the right cup, which meant dropping it in at the banquet table itself. He'd debated the entire night whether to do it, carrying the poison in a small vial in his robes. Then he'd seen her.

"Do you require aid, my lady?" he had asked.

"I'm fine," Nadia had replied.

Then he had watched her flirt with Ghetz. Later, Crono had watched her dance with Ghetz. Bill watched his eyes. There was an old fear that stayed hidden close to Bill's heart. It was the fear of the child who hides under his bed or closes his eyes to make monsters go away. It was the fear of his father. In a single glance that night, the glance Crono gave Nadia and the ignorant Ghetz, he saw the man who had burned a nation. The fear returned and with it his resolve. However much he loved the man his father was now, he had to kill the man he would become. The poison entered the glass and Bill told himself that he wouldn't cry when the man drank it.

When the glasses were passed to the left, Bill's whole skin went cold. It was an old tradition. He had known it. But he had forgotten it. One simple mistake and he was responsible for the death of his grandmother. More than that. Truce was blamed for the poisoning. It was like watching a building collapse, little by little and stone by stone, with the people still inside. Bill had never known how the wars between his father and the rest of the kingdom had started. He'd never known his grandmother either. She had died, he had been told, before he was born. Killed by an assassin. Things were coming together in his mind in a way that sent spikes of fear into his heart. He had thought that he was coming back in the past to prevent something, not to cause it. The future was refusing to change.

It is an odd thing, but when a man has watched his plans crumble around him he rarely pulls out. Logic would tell us that when the path we've chosen has turned sour, we should turn from it and choose another. Instead, disaster tends to bring an overwhelming desire, a painful desire, to make things right. Or no. It is not about making things right. It is about proving that we weren't wrong in the first place. That, though today may be destruction and fire, if we stay on the path long enough it will prove to lead us to paradise. Bill felt that now. If he turned away from his decision to murder his father, then what had his grandmother died for? What had Truce burned for? He continued to plan Crono's death, now with a fervor that had before eluded him. He had attempted stealth, now he would turn to subterfuge. His plans were laid instantaneously. The very night that Truce burned he helped Nadia and Ghetz escape. Then, when Crono sent Grecco after them, he countered by sending Thanojax. Thanojax was to keep Grecco from finding Nadia as long as he could. If that failed, he was to kill Grecco. With that situation under control, Bill turned his efforts to taking over the military. This time there would be no mistakes. This time he would march Crono in front of his own firing line. He would watch him die.

* * *

The crossbow made a quiet sound. The bolt didn't have far to travel. It dissapeared through Bill's right side, just underneath the metallic plating that covered his chest and made up his arm. The man's entire body tensed and he began to shake. Nadia had seen men break before. She remembered the wounded at the bridge of Zenan, so long ago, and how the injured had run blindly, as if running would take them away from their pain. She recalled one man whose head had half been smashed. His scalp had hung loosely on the left side, with his brain filling it like a pustule sore where his skull had broken. He had run for a good three hundred meters before collapsing. It had taken him minutes to die.

Bill didn't run. He was shirtless. She could see the hole where the bolt had pierced him. The shaking continued, his stomache muscles tightening and loosening. A thick smell filled the room. His bowels had emptied. Bill sat down heavily on an upholstered chair near the closet and continued to shake.

"I wish you wouldn't have come here," he said, his voice catching. "You seeing me like this wounds my heart."

His red hair was slicked back into a mane that spread out behind him. With the hair pulled out of his face, he looked almost exactly like Crono. He had her dead husband's cupid features, with the small mouth and the prominent chin. His eyes were hers, though. They were so blue. She'd only ever seen eyes like that in the mirror. Something settled deep inside of her as her blue eyes met his. It was a hole that her insides were disappearing into.

"Nadia... mother..." Bill reached out a hand. For a long time it stretched towards her. She didn't know what to make of it. The voice was shaking. It was begging her. The man in the chair had become a boy. The hand alone was steady, though, and the pendant hanging from its fingers was her own. She took it and tied it around her neck, feeling the voice inside of her bubbling up past her desire to cry.

"My name is Marle," Nadia heard the voice saying. A moment later, she realized Bill had heard it, too. The voice was no longer inside of her. It was her own voice. She had no more need of Nadia. Marle turned away from Bill and left via the window. The roof tiles would be slippery with the recent rain. The word treacherous never crossed her mind.

Bill watched her go until his pain turned to a numbness and his eyes closed of their own accord. He would have smiled if he could have. He'd saved his mother. He'd changed the future, after all. All was good.


	40. Epilogue

Norris walked down the longest hall of Guardia castle, the new seat of power of the Poorian military. The hallway was so long because it was situated at the one point in the castle where a straight line could be drawn across from the Western tower, through the castle's center, and to its Eastern tower. That straight line had been turned into a hallway and polished, Norris noticed with a neutral disinterest, to a mirror sheen. The steel heels of his silver boots clicked with each step, in a manner that reminded him of military drills and marching practice.

The doors to the throne room were open, as they always were. The General didn't liked closed doors. He said that the secrets they kept in weren't worth the enemies they concealed. So Norris didn't knock. Instead he walked into the throne room without slowing down, the sound of his boots preceding him.

The General turned with a flourish of his cape and his long blonde hair. The General was a man who enjoyed flair. He had a saying for that, too: look the role and you win the part. In other words, a leader is just a man who looks like a leader, enough to convince the rest of the world he is one.

If Norris thought about it, he'd probably decide he despised the General. He'd never thought about it.

"There's a report, sir," Norris said, clapping a hand to his forehead in a brief salute. "You told me to bring them to you directly."

"Hah, so I did. Get on with it, then."

Norris coughed, clearing his throat of an annoying tickle. "The first report concerns the upcoming expedition to ElNido. A lot of it is statistics and costs," he hesitated. As expected, the general grunted in disapproval and waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. He wore expensive rings on each finger, two on some of them.

"We'll leave that to the economists and advisors. How long?"

"1017 AD"

"Eleven years?"

"That's for a full invasion. We have already begun moving our forces into position for the take over. We've established the Black Wind in positions of power on the islands. We've infiltrated the Acacians. Lord Viper has thanked us for the lending of troops."

"You don't approve."

"I would say that my approval is not a necessity."

"Don't forget that. Espionage is a piece of this game, Captain. Do not think that it is not being used against us, as well. In any case, if the Viper cooperates, there is no reason that him or his daughter should be hurt."

Norris couldn't agree with this, but neither could he disagree. He continued his report.

"The next report is about the arm we recovered. The metal has continued to be under study by our scientists. The-"

"Who is leading the team?"

"Doctor Luccia. She was a prodigy of Lucca Ashtear's, when Miss Ashtear used to teach in Poore. That was before your accession, General. If you'd like, I can run down the history."

"I'm well aware of Miss Ashtear's past," the general answered, a quiet menace in his voice that Norris didn't quite understand. The General idly reached a hand towards his face and tapped the black patch over his right eye. It was a habit he had that made Norris' skin crawl. Norris coughed again and continued.

"The arm has been code-named the Strong Arm. The scientists are hesitant to take it apart. They aren't sure they'd be able to get it back together again. They are working slowly, taking small samples from its edges."

"This sounds unsettlingly like a lack of progress, captain."

"It's difficult. Most tools they use on the Strong Arm break, bend, or shatter."

The general didn't respond, which Norris took as a bad sign.

"I'll get them to speed up," Norris promised quickly, knowing he couldn't do anything about it. Better to promise loudly and fail quietly then the other way around.

"Luccia has a brother. Take her off the project and put him in charge of it. Tell him we want to attach the Strong Arm to Grobyc."

"General, pardon me, but Grobyc isn't completed. This will probably set back Grobyc's activation. I don't know how long, I could get an estimate, but it will be a delay."

"That should be fine."

"Pardon me again, but we had planned to use Grobyc in the invasion. It might push back our date from 1017 to something closer to 1020. Or longer. I don't know. There continues to be snags in the project."

"Snags are your specialty, Captain. Oversee the project. Continue to report. Fix it."

"Of course. I will keep us to schedule- I will improve the schedule."

"Good. Next report."

"Begging your pardon, but that's all for today General. I'm sure more will come in by the evening."

"Keep them coming. I get nervous when you're too far out of my sight, Captain." The General tapped his eye patch again and smiled. Norris couldn't tell if he was serious or if he was making some complex allusion. He decided it didn't matter. The General could think what he wanted.

"I'll take my leave, then, General Dalton," Norris bowed and ran over the rest of the formal sentence with practiced ease. "With your permission and grace. To the glory of Poore."

"Dismissed," came the reply.

* * *

"Where you from, miss?"

The blonde haired woman looked up at him with eyes that flashed indignation for a brief moment, before a smile cooled the glare and warmed her features. She was quite pretty, the bartender thought, except that she needed to lose a few pounds about her middle. Her gut was venturing beyond a pleasant softness.

"I'm from Truce," she said. "Or a little ways outside of it, truly. But that was a long time ago. I don't like to think about it."

The bartender shivered. He was a small man with a receding hairline and the movement made him look like a twig in a Winter's breeze. The name of Truce still had quite the effect on people. "I didn't mean to pry, just an idle question."

"It's not a problem. The question was fair. We can't be afraid of where we came from."

"That's a good way of thinking about, I think," the barkeep said, still uncomfortable. He searched for more neutral ground. "What will you be drinking this afternoon?"

"Just milk."

"Milk? Ha, we've got it, but mostly for spiced rums and other wines. It's been a summer and a half since I've had anyone order a glass of milk. I promise you, the ale is fresh and we've got a great wine just shipped in from Medina. Five years fresh."

"I would, but I'm expecting." She patted her stomache.

"Ah, I understand," the barkeep said, though he thought it a silly precaution. Many a woman drank during her pregnancy. Only the nobility sequestered themselves during those eight or nine months. "Can't be far along," he observed, feeling guilty about his earlier, albeit private, observation of her weight.

"About five months, I think." She thought back then nodded. Yes, that had been the last time she'd slept with Ghetz.

"You have a name picked out, yet?"

"William."

"And if it's a girl?"

"It won't be."

She sounded confident.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  
Before I sign off, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who read and stuck with the story in the long time it took to write it. Anyone who ever responded via a review or comment has even more thanks; without knowing that people were reading this, I probably never would have finished.

In that regards, I'd like to give special thanks to a few people who read and responded most dilligently over the last two and a half years:  
Cody the impaler  
MasterSam  
Downwithheartless  
Shade40  
Chocobofan

Finally, Chrono Compenium (the online receptacle of Chrono knowledge) deserves a shout-out. I referenced it frequently while creating the story. Without it, some ideas never would have come to me and I would not have been able to include many of the specifics I was able to insert surrounding the people and places of Square Enix's greatest RPG.


End file.
